


The Holiday

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 51,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: This is a modern Downton AU that follows the premise of the movie The Holiday (with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, Matthew is English, lives in Ireland and does not know the other Crawleys, though he shares their last name.

 

**Sybil**

Sybil Crawley was done with Larry Grey. DONE! She'd put up with more than most reasonable women would be willing to do. She'd had her reasons for staying so long, of course, but no more. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. The end. And hallelujah.

As Sybil watched the embarrassed blonde she recognized as the receptionist from Larry's office try to disentangle herself from the bed sheets while Larry, shameless as always, asked Sybil why she was back from her medical conference two days early—"Don't you always ring before you come over?"—it occurred to Sybil that she did feel a measure of heartbreak, even regret. But mostly, she was overwhelmed with relief.

The Larry Grey experiment was over. After months—years, really—of small disappointments that her parents continually asked her to look past, here, finally, was proof that the guy was a first-class wanker. Not even her parents could deny it now. Not even they would force her to stay in a relationship that had probably been doomed from the start.

Larry Grey had been a compromise. A lifetime of rebellion had left Sybil with so little to connect with her parents about that when they invited her childhood friend, the son of her parents' closest friends, to her welcome home from university dinner after her first year away, she decided to go along with it. It was an obvious set up, but did she really have room to complain? Her first 19 years hadn't offered much in the way of relationships or love. In truth, she was absolute rubbish when it came to talking to members of the opposite sex. Larry had been sweet as a child. He was a bit conceited now and already out of university, but not wholly without charms. Her parents loved her and wanted her to be happy. So Sybil decided to go along with it.

She had disappointed the Earl and Countess of Grantham Robert and Cora Crawley with her liberal politics and constant attendance at local rallies, once even ending up on the front page of a Yorkshire paper—to their utter horror—with other protesters calling for more aid to Africa. She had disappointed her parents with her decision to turn down Oxford and go to university in the United States instead, choosing her grandmother Martha's alma mater, Yale, an institution whose name could not be mentioned without an eye roll from her father. And she had disappointed her parents with her decision to study public health, rather than follow the family into law. Sybil never regretted any of those choices, but she knew they alienated her from her parents, and whatever their differences, she loved them dearly.

Given her track record with love at that point, there was no reason to turn down a well-meaning suggestion, especially when it made her parents so happy. _Larry's a bit of a prat, but how bad could it possibly be?_ she had thought back then. Famous last words.

The first year, was full of letters and calls and e-mails—even a visit from Larry to New Haven. His prose didn't exactly sweep her away, but it was nice to know that someone was thinking about her. In retrospect, of course, she could imagine what he got up to and with who when he wasn't writing her. In truth, that the relationship was long distance for its first three years probably accounted for why it lasted as long as it did.

The second year was more of the same. More letters, more calls, two visits and dinners with her parents when she was home on break. They were so pleased that she didn't mind that Larry wasn't exactly attentive with her when they weren't around. She realized just how much holding out on sex was annoying him, so she relented and he warmed up a bit, but not for long. She knew that sex wasn't what movies and romance novels made it out to be, but when they did it she couldn't help but wonder if something was missing. She wondered if Larry felt it too. Still, the "experiment" marched on.

The third year, her last in America, there were fewer letters and fewer phones calls that didn't end in him cutting her off because he had important things to do (when the background noise clearly suggested he was out with friends) or him wondering why she didn't just quit school and come back to England where he could support her and she didn't have to work. There were several times she thought she'd heard a woman with him, but she'd soon be back home, she thought, and surely things would be different then, right?

Not really. Despite his insisting that he move in with her. Sybil got her own flat in London after graduation, close to her job. She was doing research on post-traumatic stress disorder with men returning home from Afghanistan. She loved working with the returning soldiers and their families and everything she was learning about mental illness and public health. Her job, she supposed, is what had made the last year with Larry bearable, but what distance had kept hidden, proximity made painfully obvious. Larry had wanted Sybil to be his respectable wife from a respectable family—someone pretty and smart he could trot out at dinner parties, not someone he actually treated like the person you'd want to spend the rest of your life with. So he led her on, but he didn't actually love her, not like Sybil had hoped she would be loved someday.

Her parents insisted that with him, she would be provided for. She could quit her job. She could do charity work, be a lady of society, as her title— _Lady_ Sybil Crawley—called on her to do. That wasn't what she wanted, but the duty-bound daughter struggled with letting down her parents yet again.

Not anymore. Tawdry as the whole situation was—girl walking in on boyfriend having an affair with a work "friend"—Larry and his blonde gave Sybil the ultimate out. Robert Crawley was, even in the loving eyes of his youngest daughter, a backward-thinking man of pointless traditions, but he would not stand for her to be humiliated. This was one of the reasons she loved him. He was wholly unreasonable—until he wasn't.

So as Sybil left Larry's flat for the last time, she told him not to bother calling her again and to forget the New Year's ball at Downton this year. Sybil also told the poor girl she could do better.

Sybil immediately went over to her best friend Gwen's flat, and surprising both Gwen and herself immediately broke down in tears as she walked in. The tears were not for Larry but for herself. _How had she wasted four years of her life on such a git!?_

"We all do dumb things in life," Gwen said consoling her. "Yours was listening to your parents. They need to get out of the match-making business, I'm afraid. "

"They do," Sybil said between sniffles. "I mean I know they won't ask me to forgive him this, but I can only imagine they'll have someone else lined up within a week. Or worse, they'll want to talk about what I can do better next time."

"I suppose even in today's times aristocrats only care about marrying off their daughters—too bad for you Mr. Knightly's line probably died out somewhere around World War I. Maybe we can look for Captain Wentworth's great-great-great-great-grandson in the Naval recruiting offices?"

This made Sybil laugh. Gwen Carson, the daughter of the Crawley family's longtime housekeeper, had grown up alongside the aristocratic Crawley girls Mary, Edith and Sybil, but had none of the expectations and limits (at least, Sybil called them limits) that came with their title. The Crawleys paid for Gwen's education and loved her and her parents, Charles and Elsie Carson, as family. For Sybil, Gwen had been a saving grace many times over, especially when her older sisters became too much even for her, the sensible baby of the family, to handle.

Gwen loved Jane Austen and dropped references to her two favorite Austen men as often as she could. It was her and Sybil's mutual love of literature and reading that bonded them at an early age, though Gwen often wondered aloud if maybe Austen and her perfect gentlemen had ruined them for real men now that they were of "marry-able" age. Sybil, today at least, was inclined to agree.

They spent the rest of the night drinking wine and trying to rate Larry on the Austen scale of masculinity.

"To suggest that Larry is a Willoughby would be giving his looks and wooing abilities too much credit," Gwen said between sips.

"Could he be a Mr. Elton?"

"Maybe. Emma tried to set him up with a friend before she really knew him, but I wouldn't have given Larry the benefit of the doubt to that extent, even after just meeting him."

"You could have told me that!" Sybil exclaimed.

"I did!" was the retort. Sybil couldn't help but laugh. _Note to self_ , she thought, _listen to friend in matters of the heart, not parents_.

"He's a Mr. Collins," Gwen concluded about Larry. "Your parents want you to marry him, but he is boring and you'd rather claw your eyes out."

"Perfect!" Sybil giggled, then sighed. "On my way here, I sent mum a message about the whole thing. I know she'll want to come over to talk about it. If only I could go away for like two weeks and then resurface and pretend nothing has happened."

"So go on holiday."

"But where could I go right now? I don't really have money for a week hotel stay."

"Do a house-swap with someone—I know! Why don't you go to Dublin? You've always wanted to go see the James Joyce Center, right? Immerse yourself in your beloved Irish lit and come back a new woman."

"A house-swap?"

"Oh, it's perfect. Anna and John did it last year. You go on this website where people who want to go somewhere list their houses to kind of rent, and you pick one and switch houses with them for a week. They went to Wales, I think, but I'm sure there are lots of listings for Ireland."

"So let someone live in my flat?"

"Yes! The idea is that you both get to go somewhere without staying at a hotel. I'm sure they have rules and fines if you trash the place or something."

"I should hope so!"

"My point is you can get away now. That's what you need, and Dublin would be perfect. How can someone who loves the Irish as much as you do have never been to Ireland?"

Sybil blushed at this, but it was true. A seminar on Irish literature she took her first year at Yale had made her a devotee for life. She'd read and loved everything by Joyce, including Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man four times, and even started trying to learn Irish so she could read more traditional stuff in its original language. Her favorite, though, was "The Radical Chauffer," a novel that had been out less than a year at the time her lit professor recommended it to her at uni. The story, about an Irishman who falls in love with the daughter of a British lord and brings her to Dublin just after the Easter Rising in 1916, moved Sybil in a way that made her feel as if the writer was a long-lost friend. Nobody save her professor and her, it seemed, had ever heard of him, and no amount of Googling produced a photo. All she knew what that he was young, Irish and, in her humble opinion, marvelously talented. How she wished that he would publish something else.

"So what's it going to be?" Gwen asked pulling her out of her reverie.

Sybil thought it over. She _had_ always wanted to go to Dublin. Her parents would be insufferable the next couple of weeks. She hadn't had a real vacation since she'd started work. Christmas and the ball were coming soon, and her family would certainly be unavoidable then.

"What would I have to do?"

Gwen let out a loud "YES!" and ran to get her laptop.

Sybil smirked at her friend's enthusiasm. "You're awfully excited to be rid of me."

"Only because I want Larry all to myself," Gwen deadpanned back. She paused and looked at her friend square in the face with her kind eyes.

"You need something good in your life, Sybil, but you need to find it on your own. Away from everything you know—even me."

"I did go away to school, you know."

"Yes, but Yale only pointed you in the direction you needed to go. Now, you have to actually take the journey."

Sybil still seemed skeptical, so Gwen took a different tack. "Do you remember how much you pushed me to apply for the job with Mr. Bromidge? I would have given up without even trying, but you kept telling me it would be worth it in the end, and it was. Now, you're being the cynic, and I get to play the role of the fool who is long from beaten. You will do this if I have to pack you in a box and ship you to Ireland myself."

_She truly is the best kind of friend_ , Sybil thought with a smile.

"OK, so whose house can I invade in Dublin?"

Gwen started scrolling through the listings on the website her friend Anna had recommended, stopping on the fourth on the list.

_Lawyer in early thirties looking to trade places with a Londoner for a week. Three-bedroom flat in City Centre. Furnished and clean. No pets, please._

"This is perfect!"

Sybil looked over her shoulder at the ad and the ones above it.

"Why that one? They all kind of say the same thing."

"Look at the name next to it."

"Matthew Crawley."

"He has your last name. It's a sign!"

Sybil looked at Gwen's big smile with skeptical eyes. "Lots of people are named Crawley."

"Yes, but how many are looking for someone who lives in London to trade houses with?"

Sybil took a deep breath. Ireland, in many ways, had become this special place in her mind where she retreated when life became overwhelming. A small, sheepish part of her wanted it to remain a fantasy. But Gwen was right. She needed an adventure.

"All right, Mr. Crawley, let's trade houses."

"Yay!" Gwen eagerly set her computer on Sybil's lap for her to type out her message.

_Dear Matthew . . ._


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Matthew**

"So why are you doing this exactly?"

Matthew Crawley looked over at his friend Tom Branson, sighed, and for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last week, explained.

"I need a change. This has been a hard year, and I have to clear my head before I decide anything. I don't want to be a tourist. I just want to be somewhere else for a while. Maybe the change should be permanent—I don't know, but I need to figure things out. That's what this trip is."

"And what about the part where a person you've never met stays at your flat?"

"That's the arrangement. You trade your houses. I can't very well rent a furnished London flat for a week, so I have to trade with someone. I've told you—"

"I know, I know. There are protections in place. I'm looking ahead to prepare. I'm the one whose door you'll be knocking on when this girl decides she wants to set fire to all of your furniture."

Matthew smirked. "So yesterday, she was going to paint it all pink. And today she's an arsonist?"

"I'm just going through all the possible scenarios in my mind," Tom said, with the tiniest bit of mocking in his tone.

"What about the scenario in which you shag her?"

"Since when have you known me to sleep with random women?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

Tom laughed and added, "In recent memory."

"Fair point. Though I've told you that this self-imposed celibacy is at the root of your writer's block, haven't I? The editrix from hell can't have ruined you for _all_ women."

"Sex never made my writing better. If anything it had the opposite effect—the editrix should be proof of that."

"You just haven't found the right girl."

"Well, if she ever materializes, we can come back to this conversation, but in the mean time I think the matter at hand here is me putting a spy-cam in the flat, don't you think?"

"No, I don't," Matthew said, rolling his eyes. "The matter at hand is you agreeing to take me to the airport this afternoon and then staying to pick Miss Crawley up and driving her back here."

"Oh, all right then. Chauffer Branson, at your service." Tom Branson laughed and looked over at his friend. Matthew's tired eyes gave him pause. "I know things have been tough mate, and being me I like to make fun, but I hope you know that I'm here to help no matter what."

Matthew smiled. "I do. And if I don't say it enough, thank you."

This _had_ been a hard year, a hard couple of years. The sudden illness and eventual death of his girlfriend Lavinia Swire had put Matthew through the ringer, and the death of her father, who had come to depend on him so much, merely months after, only made the grieving process all the more difficult. Here he was, 15 months after Lavinia's cancer diagnosis, 14 months after her death, six months after Mr. Swire had passed away, and he was no closer to figuring out what to do with the small fortune the Swires had left him or with himself.

His mother had been putting a bug in his ear about returning to England, but Matthew couldn't make up his mind. He liked his current firm well enough, but lawyers could always find work in England. Dublin had been good to him, but it was time for a change. He needed to leave Lavinia and her father behind and start fresh. Not in Manchester, where his mother, Isobel Crawley, would drive him batty, but somewhere he could submerge himself in a new life—something like the life he'd pictured for himself when he and Tom were overly eager university boys at Cambridge, where they'd met on their first day.

Still, Matthew was nervous about how to go about it all, and after extensive thought—Matthew Crawley never made a rash decision—the house swap idea would allow him to dip his toe in the water, so to speak, and see if London truly was for him.

The hardest thing would be to leave Tom, a native Dubliner whom Matthew doubted would ever consider living elsewhere. Matthew knew all too well that Tom had been battling his own demons for some time. The bright spark from which his first novel had emerged, just months after their university graduation, was steam rolled in less than a year by an ill-advised affair with his editor and the death of his father the very week the book had hit store shelves. Five years later, Tom had barely recovered. Critics gave his book a warm reception but with an author who suddenly had no interest in doing publicity, sales of the book were modest and little came to be known to its readers about him. The editrix from hell, as Matthew later dubbed her, dropped Tom and his contract within months. He now worked at a small travel magazine and still "dabbled" as he put it, but he hadn't published anything of substance since.

In spite of everything, Tom had not wavered in his support of Matthew over the past year and a half. Matthew was not sure how he would have gotten through it all without his friend's absurd sense of humor and uncanny ability to get through to Matthew when his overly active conscience and overzealous sense of duty got the best of him. Despite his protests, Matthew knew he could count on Tom to be there for Miss Crawley in case she needed anything while she was in Dublin.

Not that a ride from the airport was part of the deal. That was just Matthew being Matthew, doing the chivalrous thing the way his parents had brought him up to do. Tom teased him about it, of course, but Matthew had a feeling Tom would be singing a different tune when he got a look at her. He wasn't setting them up, not really. He was merely curious as to what would happen when they met.

And anyway, exchanging photos before the swap had been her idea.

"Think of it as a kind of introduction," she'd said in their first phone call. "You'll see me in photos in my flat anyway. Besides, I think I could tell if you're likely to root through my knickers if I can see what you look like."

"My assurances to the contrary won't help?"

"Humor me."

_Yup_ , Matthew thought now, looking over at his friend. _She was_ definitely _Tom's type_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tom**

Her flight was two hours late, according to the airport monitor, but Tom didn't much mind. He liked people-watching and the airport was the perfect venue for that. He didn't come here very often. His friends, like his family, were all home bodies. Sure, they enjoyed the occasional jaunt around the Irish countryside, but why ever leave Ireland? Where else was there to go?

Matthew was the exception, of course. He'd travel back to England to see his mother for the holidays and elsewhere for the occasional vacation. This trip, though, was different. This trip might be the last Matthew took before he left Ireland to return home for good. Tom knew that and wasn't too proud to admit that it scared him a bit. Not just because Matthew was his best friend, but in many ways because he considered Matthew the only witness to his having done something with his life. Matthew knew him at Cambridge, was with him as he wrote and published what he thought would be his first, not his only book. If Matthew left now, it might be as if Tom had never left Ireland, had never been a real writer at all. In Tom's mind, Matthew tethered him to the grand dreams he'd once had about what he could do and where he could go.

But Matthew needed to move on, and Tom knew it. So Tom soldiered on, playing the role of the supportive friend and tried to look for something that would spur whatever it was inside himself that had gotten him into Cambridge and that had made him a writer, at least for a time. So far, all he'd found was that he was very good at replacing the ribbon of his typewriter, which he used up by writing tediously detailed descriptions of people he watched on the street, the pub and, today, the airport. He was no longer depressed, hadn't been for a long time. But he was bored. And people-watching, if nothing else, soothed his boredom.

For the last 15 minutes or so, he'd had his eyes on a young couple and their baby, no more than two years old. They were departing, but their luggage was over the weight limit, and they'd been arguing about how to best redistribute the weight so the airline would take their bags. The man's salt-and-pepper hair made him look older than his face did—Tom guessed anywhere from 36 to 43 years old. She was a few years younger and still wearing a bit of her pregnancy weight from the look of her too-tight trousers. Both seemed in dire need of a vacation, and Tom hoped, for their sake, that the holiday included a baby-sitter somewhere along the line.

He shifted his eyes to the right a bit, to the hall that welcomed arriving passengers to Dublin. He was about to check his watch again when he spotted a young woman with a dark grey wool pea coat and a blue and green striped scarf. She had brown hair with a slight curl, just past her shoulders and parted down the middle. Her eyes, even from this distance, Tom could see were the brightest blue. She was beautiful, but not the obvious kind all take notice of, the kind you have to stop and observe to really appreciate, the kind he liked best. She stepped a bit away from the moving crowd and took in her surroundings. She took a deep breath, then smiled.

_Whoa_.

For a second, Tom thought she had spotted whoever had been waiting for her— _lucky bastard_ —but after a moment he realized she was just standing there smiling. In her face, he could see she felt a bit of pride in herself and eagerness and . . . peace? Tom, before he caught himself thinking it, very suddenly and very ardently wished to be the person she was coming to see, to be in this moment with her and share in whatever it was she was feeling. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring when he realized she was looking straight at him.

If he had been in possession of his faculties just then, he would have looked away embarrassed, but for the life of him he couldn't take his eyes away. He saw her move her eyes to his lap— _Was she sizing him up?_ —and then start walking toward him, his eyes opening increasingly wider in shock and a bit of panic as she approached.

She stopped directly in front of him, and put on that same smile that had completely disarmed him moments ago from yards away. Discombobulated, he moved to get to his feet so quickly he almost fell back into the chair. He wondered if he'd conjured her up out of thin air.

_Here's the perfect woman you ordered, Mr. Branson. Will there be anything else?_

"I'm Sybil."

"Uh, hi. . . . I'm Tom." _Was this happening?_

There followed what felt to him like an interminable minute of awkward silence.

She narrowed her eyes, amused but also a bit wary. "Is the car nearby?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The car. I assume you're the person Matthew sent to pick me up." She pointed to the sign that moments ago had been resting on his lap while he was waiting but now lay on the floor.

MISS SYBIL CRAWLEY

_Oh._

_OH!_

_Ugh._

Reality hit him like a dull hammer. He shook his head, trying to pull himself out of the trance watching her had put him in.

"Right. Sorry—I was in a bit of a fog just then." He smiled nervously, trying very hard not to look the fool he probably seemed to her at this moment. She smiled, clearly oblivious as to her effect on him. _Dear God._

"So this is your bag, then?" he asked pointing to the large suitcase she was pulling. _Obviously, you daft prick._

"Yes." She shrugged sheepishly, and, as if trying on sarcasm for the first time, added quietly, "I like to travel light." _Just kill me now._

He managed to pull himself together long enough to take the suitcase from her and point her toward the exit and parking lot. They walked in silence to the car, and once there, he quickly stored her suitcase and moved to open the back door.

Her brow furrowed and she spoke in mild surprise.

"Oh, so you're Matthew's chauffer, then? I thought he said a friend would be picking me up. Either way, I'd rather the front if you don't mind."

Tom smiled sheepishly. "No—yes—I mean, that's fine—you riding in the front. I'm not a chauffer. Not anymore, anyway. Old habit."

She smiled looking a bit relieved and stepped into the car as he held the front passenger door open. Tom rolled his eyes at himself as he went around to the driver's side and climbed in. He smiled rather tightly at her as she looked over at him, all gorgeous and bright, from the passenger's seat. _Get a bloody grip._

"So how do know Matthew?" Sybil asked once they were on their way.

"We went to uni together, back in England. I convinced him to move here after."

"And you used to be a chauffer?"

"Kind of. My father used to have a car shop, did repairs mostly, but he had a few town cars to drive clients around for a couple of law firms and business types. When we were in school, my brother and I drove them sometimes. Kieran runs the shop now."

"And your father?"

Tom scratched his forehead before answering. "Um, he passed away a few years ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"No, please. It's all right. . . . It's been a while now."

He looked over at her as she gave him a small smile then turned to the window. He let another moment go by before starting the conversation again. He liked the sound of her voice. Huskier than usual for a woman and— _Lord help us but it begs to be acknowledged_ —disarmingly sexy.

"So what brings you to Dublin?"

"Nothing particularly. Looking for an adventure, I suppose." He raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled that smile again. "I need a bit of a break, and I've always wanted to come here. I'm a bit of a James Joyce fangirl."

Tom brightened at this. "Oh, yeah? What's your favorite?"

"It's a bit clichéd to say, of course, but Portrait. I mean that's everyone's favorite isn't it?"

"Except the ones who claim Ulysses is their favorite, but I'm sure most of them are lying."

This made her laugh. "I'm afraid I'm not ambitious enough to claim that one. My best friend and I have a rule that you can't call a book a favorite until you've read it at least three times. I stopped with Ulysses at two."

"You've read Ulysses _twice_?" He asked a bit in awe.

"Well, I had to," she said matter-of-factly. "I didn't really understand it the first time."

Tom started to wonder again whether he had not, in fact, conjured her up.

He sneaked another glance at her as she gazed out the window, elbow leaning against it, chin on hand. It occurred to him how very young she looked just then.

"How old are you—if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-four. Why?"

"You don't look old enough to have read that much Joyce your lifetime. Ulysses twice. Portrait three times. I won't even ask about the poetry."

"Four for Portrait. Other than Ulysees, everything else just once." She shrugged, embarrassed. "I suppose I don't have much of a life."

"Sounds like a perfectly good one to me. But then, I'm a working class lad, so I don't have patience for most other people's preferred frivolities." He smiled and she looked to the window again, a serene look settling over her features.

After a moment, she said, "I have two older sisters, so while I enjoyed watching their antics as they got used to grown-up life, I also got a chance to see very early on that I would have little interest in the typical travails of womanhood."

She continued, never taking her eyes from the window, "My grandmother Martha told me once that she had no time for people who had no time to read because the worlds they lived in were so very small. She was my hero growing up, so I started reading as much as I could to make my world as big as humanly possible. I don't suppose that's made me a very interesting person, but it made me feel like no matter how much I rebelled against the world I did live in, there was always some place else for me to go. That's why I like Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man so much—because it brought me here."

She turned to him suddenly, blushing, as if realizing for the first time perhaps that she was speaking aloud and to a total stranger. "I suppose that doesn't make much sense."

With his eyes firmly on the road, he said quietly, to himself as much as to her, "It makes perfect sense."

They remained in companionable silence for a time. As they neared Matthew's flat, though, Tom spoke up, hopeful that the conversation wouldn't have to stop when they got there.

"So what do want to do while you're in Dublin?"

"Well, you probably think this is awful and touristy, but there are tours that you can do, of Joyce's Dublin." She reached for her handbag, sitting at her feet, and started rummaging through it, pulling out a small book. "I bought a self-guided one."

"Let's have a look." He reached over to take it from her hand and promptly tossed into the back seat.

"What did you do that for?" She asked with a puzzled look.

He gave her a mischievous smile. "That book is a waste of your time."

"Read it, have you?"

"Well, no, but if you really want to experience Joyce's Dublin, you need to do it with a true Dubliner, preferably one who knows Joyce as well as you seem to. Luckily for you, I meet that criteria and I have the evening off." They stopped at a traffic light, and he looked over at her with his best smile, raising his eyebrows in invitation. She seemed momentarily wary and he suddenly wondered if he'd overstepped his bounds. "If you want to that is."

She held his gaze for a beat, then responded. "Well, if you're the expert, I guess I must. But I'll have you know you've just set the bar very high." She turned back to the window dramatically, nose in the air and with a flair that made her hair sway against her shoulder. _Was she flirting with him?_ "I'll expect a tour that's well rehearsed, informative _and_ witty."

He would have prayed for God to save him, except he was already too far gone.


	4. Chapter 4

 

**Sybil**

She looked a mess. Her blouse was wrinkled from the flight. Her hair was going every which way. Her cheeks were flushed like a schoolgirl's.

_He is so handsome. And charming. And wonderfully Irish. And did she mention handsome?_

Dwelling on all of this didn't help Sybil with her nerves or her appearance as she tried to "freshen up" before heading back out to the living room, where Tom, her handsome, charming, wonderfully Irish self-appointed tour guide awaited. This wasn't what she'd had in mind when she set out on her solitary voyage of self-discovery this morning from London. She'd downloaded audiobooks of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners and planned to listen to them as she walked the streets of Dublin. Terribly clichéd, yes, but that's what she wanted. In her mind, it was just her. Not her and someone else. But now this handsome, charming, Irish Irishman wanted to butt in. She started thinking again about how adorably rattled he was at the airport and how easily they conversed on the ride to the flat and how comfortable she felt with him and how terribly good-looking he was.

_He is so handsome. And charming. And wonderfully Irish. And did she mention handsome?_

She laughed out loud at herself. A schoolgirl in every way. She considered calling Gwen but knew immediately the words that would come out of her mouth—and the volume at which they would.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU RINGING ME FOR WHEN THERE'S A HOT IRISHMAN IN THE NEXT ROOM!?"

She laughed again and took a deep breath. What was she worried about, exactly? She'd be gone in a week. What possible harm could come to her spending one evening with him?

Well, she knew exactly what kind. But she wouldn't be afraid of heartbreak, not any more, not after Larry. Sybil thought of her Grandmother Martha just then.

_Make your world bigger, my dearest._

And with that, she stepped out of the bathroom.

Tom stood up from the sofa as she rejoined him in the living room. She'd tied her hair up and changed her blouse. _Not much of an effort_ , she thought, but Sybil was never one to fret about her appearance. He smiled at her, and she wondered how it was that they'd only met two hours ago. Already she felt like he'd been smiling at her like that always.

"Are you hungry at all?" he asked.

"Famished, I'm afraid."

"Well, no walking tour of the city could be enjoyable on a empty stomach, so I thought we might go down to the pub for a bite first."

"All right."

He helped her with her coat and grabbed a small paper bag from the coffee table before guiding her toward the door. She felt her cheeks flush— _again_ —as his hand barely touched the small of her back.

"What's in the bag?" she asked as he closed the door behind him.

He leaned in conspiratoriously and winked. "For later."

_Adventure, indeed._

The din at the pub was such that they had to lean into each other across the table a bit to hear one another. From this vantage point, Sybil got her first good look at Tom's face. His hair was on the darker side of blonde, a color that would brighten in the sun, no doubt. It wasn't closely cropped. In fact, she wondered just how long it had been since he'd gotten it cut, the way the fringe kept threatening to spill over onto his forehead. It was all she could do not to run her fingers through it.

_Ireland bucket list, item 1: Run fingers through Tom's hair._

He had intensely blue eyes. Her own would wander around the pub any time she felt pinned down by his stare. His smile turning into a grin when she dared look to him again, it being obvious to both, by her blushing cheeks, who was avoiding whose gaze. However rattled Tom might have seemed at the airport when he first saw her, he was the one having fun with her now.

_Ireland bucket list, item 2: Beat Tom at staring contest._

His features were youthful, but Sybil couldn't help but see a worn quality to his face. Like a trauma that had left its mark.

"How old are you?"

"I'll be 30 this month."

"A Christmas birthday, that's no fun. Everyone always giving you combined presents."

"It's on New Year's Eve, actually. But even as a kid I didn't mind. I was never one for the attention."

_Ireland bucket list, item 3: Make massive deal out of Tom's birthday. Preferably in public._

Technically, that was after she'd be back home. But she already knew this would continue on past her departure date. Whatever _this_ was. She would make sure of it.

"What was it like growing up here?"

"Loud."

"How so?"

"I'm the youngest of six—one brother, four sisters—all of them of adamant and vociferous opinions, a trait they all got from our parents."

"But not you?"

"I have opinions, but let's just say, I learned to keep quiet and observe from an early age."

"And how do you use those gifts now?"

He hesitated. "I work for travel magazine."

This perked Sybil up. "So you're a writer!"

Unfortunately, her momentary excitement seemed to have the opposite effect on him. He frowned a bit and shifted in his seat, his eyes now avoiding hers. The first time he seemed visibly uncomfortable to her since they'd met.

"Of a sort," he finally answered. "I'm an editor mostly, to be honest. Don't know whether my rambunctious relations made me better or worse at _that_ , but there you are." After a long moment, he brought his eyes back to hers and gave her a small smile.

Sybil sensed that there was something behind what he was saying but couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

_Ireland bucket list, item 4: Find out what Tom really wants to do with his life._

"And what do you do Miss Crawley?"

"I work with soldiers returning from Afghanistan in readjusting to life at home. My degree is in public health, so I'm doing research on post dramatic stress disorder and how public services meet the needs of those who suffer from it."

"Wow. That's amazing."

Sybil smiled sheepishly. "Not really, but I do like it."

"Well, it's wonderful that you do it. You seem as if you'd be very good at it." The sparkle came back into his eyes when he said that last bit, which made Sybil wonder what he meant.

"Good at which part, exactly?"

He laughed quietly, looking at his hands. "Getting troubled men to tell you how they feel." Getting serious and looking up again, he added, "But I'm glad you can."

_Ireland bucket list, item 5: Stop minding that Tom makes me blush every five minutes._

They looked at each other for a long moment, both a little bit afraid, it seemed, of what would be said next.

Luckily, the server came up with their drinks at that precise moment: two shots of Bailey's and two pints of Guinness. His choice.

"Isn't this a bit on the stereotypical side?" Sybil asked. "I thought with you I was getting the genuine article."

He laughed as he pushed the shot in front of her. "I'm easing you in. Besides, these are classics for a reason."

Lifting up his shot glass, he said, "Now, drink, Miss Crawley, to the start of your Irish education."

They clinked glasses, and Sybil closed her eyes as the sweet, creamy liquid slid down her throat. He immediately went for the Guinness and lifted up his pint to clink hers. She responded in kind.

He took a longer drink than she did, which allowed her to watch him closely as he, without realizing he was doing it, licked the extra foam off his lips with his tongue.

_Ireland bucket list, item 6: Kiss Tom._

_Ireland bucket list, item 7: Repeat item 6 as often as time allows._

And so it went for what seemed like days, but was really only about two hours, each sharing bits of information about their lives, past and present, and Sybil's list of wishes about Tom for the trip growing longer and longer and longer. _Hear Tom speak Irish. See Tom's flat. Watch Tom reading. Watch Tom sleeping. People watch with Tom._

Over the course of dinner, he moved on to Murphy's and Sybil to a much lighter lager.

"I'm a lightweight, I'm afraid," she said.

"Well, we'll definitely be doing something about that," was his reply.

By the time they stood to leave, they both felt a warm glow, not so much from the alcohol, but from the feelings even a casual observer could see growing between them.

Stepping outside and emerging from the warmth of the small pub, Sybil shivered. Despite how close they had been sitting inside, she was taken aback when he stepped up to her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms for warmth. It wasn't a romantic move, but it felt deeply intimate to Sybil. The kind of thing a considerate husband would do. Looking into his eyes, she saw that he clearly didn't think much of it. Sybil thought back to something she had heard her mother say once, "Love is important, but it's not nearly so important in a marriage that's going to last as friendship." She felt a lump rise in her throat. Whatever romantic mysteries lay ahead for them, in that small gesture, Tom showed he already thought of her as a friend.

_Irish bucket list, final item: Make my friend Tom fall in love with me._

"Shall we get to know Dublin, then?" He asked enthusiastically.

"You mean we're starting now, this late?"

"Of course! We've got a lot of ground to cover—or are you not up for it?"

She narrowed her eyes at his teasing smile. "Where to, then, tour guide of my dreams?" Sybil bit her lip, realizing what she had just said, wondering if she could pull the words back into her mouth and swallow them.

He, unfazed, answered by extending his hand, silently asking to take hers.

Still momentarily embarrassed, she hesitated.

_Oh, Sybil. Stop trying to be so stoic for once in your life._

She took his hand and interlaced her fingers with his.

"I hope you brought comfortable shoes" he said, gently pushing on her shoulder with his as they started walking. The motion caused her to step slightly away from him, but he tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her back to him.

Sybil lost all sense of time as Tom walked her first to the site of the former No. 7 Eccles Street, where Ulysses begins and ends; then to St. George's Church, whose pealing bells are mentioned in Ulysses and Dubliners; to Belvedere College on Denmark Street, where Joyce was a schoolboy; to the James Joyce Center itself, so she would know how to get there— _as if_ she would remember anything about this night except the feel of her hand in his, and the soft lilt of his brogue as he shared his favorite Joyce passages and memories. They walked by the statue of Charles Stewart Parnell, veering now to Irish history, though Tom pointed out his influence on Joyce and his appearance in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Finally, they passed the Writer's Museum on their way to the Garden of Remembrance, where they stood now, at this late hour, Sybil wondering how she could keep the night from ever ending.

Tom shared stories his father had told him when he was a boy of distant, long-dead relatives who had fought for Irish freedom. Sybil watched him, utterly enraptured, a bit in awe of his ability to spin a good yarn. It was there that he took out a bottle of whiskey from the bag he'd brought with him from Matthew's flat.

"I'll have to repay Matthew for the liquor, but this is a family tradition. My Da used to always bring some when he brought us here and dump a little on the ground. He said it was so our heroes could have a bit of fun while they watch over us."

Sybil grinned, took the bottle from him and dumped a generous amount on the grass at her feet. She then brought it to her lips and took a long pull. The liquid burned down her throat, causing her to cough several times after. She handed the bottle back to him laughing at herself over the display.

"Are you laughing at me?" She asked still recovering.

His grin was too much to bear. "I am."

Just then, seemingly out of nowhere— _What care I for watching storm clouds gather when there is such a man!_ —a rainstorm erupted. Tom quickly handed the whiskey back to Sybil, took off his coat and held it over both their heads. Awkwardly, but as quickly as they could, they ran over to the street for a taxi. One was by in a few minutes, and the two tumbled in, soaked, laughing. Sybil wondered whether this was when they would finally come together in a kiss, but strangely, neither made a move, both leaning back on the seat and staring at each other, holding hands, preferring to revel in the simple magic of the moment, of the day, of the lifetime of chances that had brought them here.

If Sybil had ever felt before what she was feeling now, she would have recognized it as falling in love.

A half-hour later, they were back in Matthew's flat, she in her warm flannel pajamas, he in borrowed sweats and a T-shirt. They were standing face-to-face by a freshly made fire, inches apart. Here, finally, was the moment.

As they moved toward one another, Sybil thought, _A perfect night_.

So too would the kiss have been had her mobile not decided to ring at that precise moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What care I for watching storm clouds gather when there is such a man!" This line is borrowed and adapted from Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility. The original line, said by Marianne, is, "What care I for colds when there is such a man."


	5. Chapter 5

 

**Mary**

To say that the evening had not lived up to expectations was gross understatement. Mary was deeply British, aristocratic even, but this was not a moment for understatement. It was horrible.

The funny thing was that at the start of the day, her expectations hadn't been all that high. Evelyn Napier, an old friend who had once held a torch for her had invited her to dinner. She had worried about leading him on, but it had been some time since she'd had a proper night out in London and she liked him enough to contend with any possible awkwardness. So she took a morning train from Yorkshire, stopped by her family's London house and prepared herself for a quiet, uneventful dinner.

Things took what at first take seemed like a promising turn when she arrived at the restaurant and saw that Evelyn had brought a guest with him, a rather fetching one at that. Evelyn worked at the Turkish Embassy in London, and Mr. Kemal Pamuk was the son of a diplomat visiting the city from Istanbul. As Evelyn relayed, while Mary looked over her menu, he had mentioned to Mr. Pamuk on his way out of the office that he was taking an old friend out to dinner. Mr. Pamuk insisted not only on joining them, but on partaking in a traditional English meal.

Mr. Pamuk was interested in Mary from the start and rather forward considering that they'd just met and that there was a third-party present. Nevertheless, Mary indulged his flattery—it wasn't every day that a beautiful foreigner flirted with her. She did not like beer much but accepted a pint tonight to please him and drank it slowly. Would that he had done the same.

But alas, after one shepherd's pie, after far more libations than the Turk could handle, after one extremely awkward walk across Shaftesbury Avenue, during which Evelyn and Mary had to drag Mr. Pamuk, who was passed out from drunkenness, back to his hotel, and after one dreadfully public screaming match with Evelyn in the hotel lobby over what he was supposed to tell his boss in the morning and why she had to be so like she was, here Mary stood, holding a frying pan in one hand and her mobile in the other, ringing her little sister to ask her who the strange man in her flat was and what in bloody hell was she doing on holiday in Ireland—or so was the man's claim. Mary didn't care that it was 2:30 in the morning, that her feet were killing her and that the seam was coming lose in her Stella McCartney dress. She needed answers.

Finally, as she heard Sybil pick up on the other end, she sighed with relief.

"Mary, if you're not bloody bleeding right now you are going to be the next time I see you."

_No,_ Mary thought _, the evening had definitely not gone as planned._

As if it were a gun, Mary used the frying pan to goad the man into sitting on the sofa, which he did with a roll of his eyes, which only served to annoy Mary further. _The nerve._ Mary then moved to Sybil's room, where she sat on the bed for what she now realized was going to be a long conversation.

"Mary? Are you even there?"

"Yes, I am _here_ , at your flat, trying to recover from one of the worst, most humiliating nights of my life, only to find a strange man sleeping in my bed."

"It's the _guest_ bed, which he is."

"Well, thank you ever so much, Sybil dearest, for telling me that you were going to have a gentleman caller." Mary hated sarcasm, but sometimes it was the only way to get through to her wayward baby sister.

"I _did_ tell you he was coming. If you'd ever check your messages, you'd see one from me explaining that I was going to Dublin for a week and a Mr. Matthew Crawley was going to be staying in my flat during that time."

" _Crawley_? Don't tell me he's a relative."

"Of course not. He's just someone I met on the Internet."

"Well, that soothes my concerns."

"Mary, can I get back to what I was doing?"

"What could you possibly be doing in the middle of the night other than sleeping?" Mary paused, realizing how very much awake her sister was and how very clear she'd made it that Mary had interrupted . . . _something_. "And who could you possibly know in Dublin to be doing anything with right now?"

"I don't suppose you'll settle for it's none of your business?"

Mary paused here and took a deep breath, putting infuriated, incensed Mary away for a moment and becoming the concerned older sister.

"Are you all right, Sybil, truly?"

Mary heard Sybil's own voice soften on the other end. "I am. I swear it. And I'm sorry we couldn't talk before I left, but I assure you that Matthew is not a serial murderer. You should let him go back to bed."

"What about me?"

"You can't sleep with a stranger in the next room?"

"I'd rather not."

"Well, then, get to know him. There's biscuits in the pantry. Offer him a peace offering."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Just who exactly are _you_ getting to know? And, for the record, as your sister, it is very much my business."

"Um . . . a friend."

"Does he have a name?"

"How do you know it's a he?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake—"

"Tom. His name is Tom, and he's Matthew's mate from university. He's offered to be my tour guide for the week."

"Of Dublin or his bedroom?"

"MARY!"

"Well?"

"We haven't kissed or anything."

"Oh, I see. If I'd called five minutes later, the answer would be different?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps my foot. So tell me about him."

"Do we have to do this now?"

"I'd like Mr. Matthew Crawley to wait a little longer."

"He's perfectly nice."

"Mr. Crawley or this Tom fellow?"

"Both."

Mary walked over to the door and peeked out at Matthew, who was still on the sofa, leaning back with his legs crossed, leafing casually through one of Sybil's newspapers as if it were 3 o'clock on a Sunday and he was waiting for his afternoon tea.

"Oh, all right. But please be careful, darling. Horrid though he was, I know Larry left a mark."

"This isn't about Larry. I haven't even thought of him all week."

"What's it about then?"

"Me having an adventure. And getting away from romantic advice from my family. I'm taking my own from now on."

Mary smiled at this. She could take her parents meddling, but she knew Sybil chaffed under it. "We just want you to be happy."

"Well, tonight I feel happy. Truly happy, Mary. Incandescently so." Mary could hear the sincerity in Sybil's words and knew immediately that she meant it.

"Well, I'm glad. But—"

"Be careful, I know."

"I was going to say don't think that you finding an Irish soul mate means I'll allow you to move to Dublin."

" _Allow_ me?"

"Oh Sybil, don't you know by now that nothing happens in this world unless I approve?"

Sybil laughed. "How could I forget."

"Goodnight, darling."

Order, at least in the universe of sisterly relations over which Mary ruled a as benevolent monarch, was restored. She smiled as she hung up, glad that her dear Sybil had, at least for the moment, something to be happy about. Sybil was so unlike Mary in so many ways, but Mary empathized with and felt deeply protective of the passions and yearnings Sybil felt—even if she didn't agree with the interests they engendered.

_This Tom person better be good to her or he'll have me to answer to._

That thought brought Mary back to the present, and the gentleman on the sofa.

_Mr. Matthew Crawley._

It occurred to Mary that Sybil didn't confirm whether Tom—who apparently went to university with Matthew—was actually Irish. Matthew was English. He was also rather nice looking. Nothing like Mr. Pamuk, of course, but clearly in that man's case looks were a red herring. The way he was sitting on the sofa now, so calm, Matthew didn't seem all that upset by her sudden appearance though he obviously hadn't been expecting anyone. Evenness of character was a quality she prized. Maybe he wouldn't prove himself a total nuisance.

She walked toward the kitchen to put the frying pan away and felt his eyes on her from just above the top fold of the newspaper as she made her way across the room.

"Does this mean my identity has been checked out?"

"Yes, though you're not completely off the hook yet," Mary responded, starting some tea and going for the biscuits Sybil recommended.

"How can we move that along? I was having a rather good sleep."

"You can tell me about your friend Tom."

"Tom?"

"It seems my sister is rather taken with him. He was with her just now, when I called her."

Matthew smiled widely, "Really?"

Mary found this reaction disconcerting. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Only that Tom is in need of a friend. I shall be very glad if he has found one in Sybil."

"Well, I don't know what kind of productive friendship happens at this time of night, but I'll take your word that he's a good person."

"The best." His obvious sincerity satisfied Mary and she turned back to the tea.

She prepared it for herself and Matthew, bringing the pot, with milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits, on a silver tray over to the coffee table by the sofa where he was sitting. It might seem rather formal an arrangement for two strangers—one in his pajamas—at 3 a.m. but Mary knew only one way of doing things. If he was surprised by her niceties, even at this time of night, he didn't say. A fact that, again, Mary appreciated.

After sitting down next to him, she watched him carefully as he took his cup and swirled a teaspoon of sugar into his tea.

Leaning back into the sofa again, he turned to her. "So does this mean you and I are not going to have a productive friendship?"

"Jury's out," she said primly. She noticed him smiling into his tea cup. It was a very nice smile.

_Mr. Matthew Crawley._

"So where did you meet your friend Tom."

"Cambridge."

"Course of study?"

"Me or him?"

"You, of course. I don't need to know _everything_ about my sister's crushes."

He smiled again, which she wished he would stop doing. It was putting her off balance.

"Law," he said.

"What a coincidence."

"You're a lawyer?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You seem skeptical."

He tilted his head and looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You don't strike me as someone who . . ." He paused.

Now she was intrigued. _Surely, he hadn't deciphered her already_. "Someone who what?"

Sighing, Matthew said, "I'm trying to figure out the best way to say it without offending you."

"Well, now you must say it and face the consequences."

"You don't strike me as someone who works for a living."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. He joined her in her mirth, although she could tell his was a laughter that suggested she had made him a bit nervous. _Good._

"I take no offense, since you're partly right. I practice part-time with my father. I have no need to work but the only thing I hate more than a lack of formality is a smart woman with nothing to do."

"You, formal?" He asked jokingly, grandly gesturing at her tea presentation.

She furrowed her brow and said, "I loath sarcasm."

"I assumed," he said, smiling into his tea cup again before taking another sip.

_Please don't start flirting. I'm too tired to do anything about it now_.

That's what she should have said to him and under normal circumstances she would have—directness was another treasured virtue—but the night's misadventures were swirling in her mind still and she found his manner pleasant. She didn't like flirting most of the time because it required her to put up a defense. A _defense that Mr. Pamuk, all too easily tore down_ , she reminded herself. And yet, watching Matthew now, Mary knew that he was not the type to tear down anything. Or invite himself in as surely Mr. Pamuk would have done had he been conscious and here right now. Matthew seemed, well, _gentlemanly_.

He caught her eyes on him and gave her an easy smile.

"You seemed a bit put out when you came in—aside from having found me here, I mean. I hope you're feeling better."

She smiled at his concern. "It was quite an evening, but it has improved dramatically. Thank you."

"Do you always come to your sister's after a bad night?"

"I don't actually live in London, but my family has a house here, which is where I usually go unless I've had to much too much to drink or the night was otherwise unpleasant. Breakfast with Sybil usually does the trick."

"What made tonight so difficult?"

"Have you ever dragged the body of a Turk across four lanes of traffic?"

Matthew had just been taking a sip of his tea and proceeded to spit it out all over the tea tray, knocking over the pot in the process. They both reacted quickly to clean it up, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

She turned to him, without realizing how close his face was now, and said, "I guess the answer is no."

Proximity made his smile all the more disarming.

"I can't decide if I should want to hear more or not," he responded, without moving away.

"That's the funny side of the whole thing. The sad side is that I think I've lost someone I considered a friend."

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you were exaggerating about the whole dead body thing."

"What? Oh! Mr. Pamuk wasn't actually dead. Just very drunk. I meant the friend who arranged dinner. We had a bit of a row after we got Mr. Pamuk off to bed. We both said some terrible things."

"About Mr. Pamuk?"

She smiled sadly. "No. Mostly about me."

It was true. Her fight with Evelyn tonight somehow turned from what happened with Mr. Pamuk to her careless attitude with men—

_"Do you think this would have happened if you hadn't been flirting with him?"_

_"ME!? He was all over me! The decent thing would have been for you to pull him aside and tell him to lay off."_

To why she was so aloof with him—

_"I think you thrive on turning your nose up at any man who dares enter your orbit."_

_"Oh, of course, my disinterest in you_ must _be a deficiency in_ my _character, because what woman could possibly turn down such a jolly prize."_

And to why she was still alone—

_"You parade yourself around like the queen of everything but inside is a poor, scared little rich girl whose biggest fear is being left to her own devices."_

Mary had had no answer to that.

She relayed this last to Matthew, despite how much it had stung, wondering if perhaps this handsome stranger could see through her the way Evelyn apparently did.

"My own devices," she repeated again, looking down into her hands. God she _hated_ vulnerability, but now that she'd released it, she couldn't hold it back. "I suppose he was right. Sad isn't it?"

She felt Matthew's hand come over hers, squeezing gently.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, in a voice that might have been described as flirtatious by Mary if it wasn't so plainly and gently sweet. "I'd have to know more about the poor little rich girl and the devices in question. I might come to enjoy being left alone with them."

Another woman, one not so self-possessed as Mary, would have blushed. Mary, however, released a long, shaky breath, as if relieved of a great burden, and smiled. It was a genuine smile, which, as anyone who knew Mary could attest, was rather a rare but beautiful thing to behold.

She looked square into his eyes for a long minute.

_Mr. Matthew Crawley._

"You know, Matthew, I have had a very bad night and considering that you're here and you're so wonderfully adorable and sweet, and you're going back to Dublin in a week and, if you're kind, you will have forgotten about this all in month's time anyway, I think we should have sex."

Matthew's eyes widened in shock.

If he would have believed it, she would have told him those weren't words she had expected to come out of her mouth just then either. But the exhaustion that Mary had felt only moments ago, not just from tonight, but from years of being perfect and precise, fell away and the resulting epiphany was that letting loose once in a while wasn't a terrible idea and here was a perfectly good opportunity to do so.

_Was he going to respond?_

"Do you want to?" she asked for good measure.

Matthew smiled, looking a little confused. "Is that a trick question?"

And just like that, they were kissing.


	6. Chapter 6

 

**Tom**

Tom did not remember going to sleep.

He remembered every detail of the evening, starting from when he first saw Sybil at the airport, to making an utter fool of himself when she approached him to the drive to Matthew's flat during which it took all his will power to keep his eyes on the road and not on the beautiful girl next to him, to their intimately noisy dinner during which he hung on her every word, to their stroll through his favorite spots during which he beamed inwardly as she seemed to hang on every word of his, to their run through the rain to the look on her face, mere millimeters from his, when her bloody sister got in the way of what he was sure was going to be the greatest kiss in the history of human lips.

Sybil had squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, walked over to her handbag and sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling when she saw who it was.

"It's my sister Mary. She'll just keep calling if I don't answer."

He had nodded reluctantly, then laughed out loud as Sybil greeted her sister on her way to the master bedroom for privacy.

_"Mary, if you're not bloody bleeding right now . . ."_

But he did not remember falling asleep.

Such was his surprise, then, when he woke up lying on his side on the very floor in front of the fireplace where he had sat down to wait for her. Even more to his surprise, there she was too, her back flush against him, her mass of hair tickling his face. They were both nestled under a comforter she must have brought out from the guest room, and she, still sound asleep, was holding his hand firmly to her, um, _chest_.

He breathed in her scent. _There are worse ways to wake up._

He shifted slightly so he could look over her shoulder to see her face. She snored, which made him smile. He shifted again, carefully pulling his hand away and rolling onto his back. Looking up at the ceiling, he wondered if in the last five years he had felt this at peace. It was absurd. He was self-aware enough to recognize that it was absurd. He had known her for less than 24 hours, had not kissed her yet. He doubted that she even knew his last name. But having now lived one perfect night with one Sybil Crawley, it suddenly felt entirely worth having muddled his way through the 29 years and 11 and a half months that led him to it. Even if one night was all he got, it was enough to have awakened in him feelings and ideas long thought lost forever—and to have unearthed some he had never known existed in him.

His father's words suddenly rang in Tom ears, "Who knew you'd turn out such a silly romantic, Tommy"—what he had said to Tom, upon reading an early draft of his as yet untitled book. It was the first time Tom had shared it with anyone, and as in all of Colin Branson's dealings with his youngest son, the words were teasing but proud and full of love.

_Oh, Da. If you only knew._

Tom looked over at Sybil again. Yes, it was absurd. But he also couldn't deny what he felt and what he saw reflected in her eyes as well. He thought about the taxi ride back to Matthew's. _That would have been the time to kiss her, fool._ Except there was something in the moment bigger than a kiss, a feeling coursing through them both that there would be all night to kiss ( _alas_ ), all week, a lifetime. Yes, it had only been one night. But what a night! He would revel in the absurdity of it. They both would.

He thought for a moment about waking her up, kissing her senseless and spending the afternoon working their way through the Kama Sutra. But the more practical side of him, the kind that knew he couldn't lose his job, realized that she'd be leaving in a week and that if he was going to spend as much time with her as possible over the next six days, he had to at least make a cursory appearance at the office this morning in order to ask for the rest of the week off.

So he very gently extricated himself from his position next to her and, careful not to wake her, lifted her and the comforter up in one smooth motion, depositing her gently on the bed in the guestroom. He went over to the dryer, where he had left last night's clothes and changed. He ran to the car to retrieve the tour book he had so gracelessly tossed into the back seat. Sitting down in the kitchen, he spent the better part of half an hour writing notes and annotations into the book, even adding stops this particular author had neglected. Finally, he crept very quietly back into the room where Sybil still lay asleep and placed the book under her hand with a note.

_Dearest Sybil,_

_Next time WAKE ME UP!_

_Yours, Tom_

_PS. This book is not all bad, if you need something to do today while I'm at work begging for the week off. The stop I've added on page 173 should be of particular interest (OK, it's just my flat), so stop by this evening if you are so inclined._

_PPS. If you can't wait until this evening, I may be able to come by sooner. Call or text: 555-9467._

_PPPS. Whenever we meet again, all mobiles must be turned OFF._

In a couple of hours, he will be knee deep in copy, working like mad, after having successfully groveled to his boss for a last-minute vacation, and to his desk mate, Rob, to cover for him so he could duck out 2 p.m. ("Does she have a friend?" Had been Rob's acerbic response. Tom hadn't even mentioned Sybil, of course, but it was written all over his face.)

Around 10:30 a.m., Sybil will wake up, laugh at the note, leaf through the book and hug both to her chest, falling back onto the pillows with a happy sigh. He'll know she's done this because at 10:41 a.m., he'll receive a text:

_Dearest Tom, Of course, I CAN'T WAIT until this evening! Yours, Sybil_

And then he'll receive another:

_PS. Thank you for the reading material, but I fear Dublin won't make sense without you._

And then another:

_PPS. I'm turning my mobile off now so you can surprise me with your arrival._

And then another:

_PPPS. Mary will be sorry._

And then he'll know—even before having kissed her—that he might like to marry her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Matthew**

Matthew had had only two encounters that he would call one night stands. The first was a rather unfortunate one during his gap year with an American girl who was doing a "semester abroad" in Barcelona. He met her on a night out there with his cousin as the two of them were traveling across Spain on their way to the Festival de San Fermin in Pamplona to run with the bulls. (Matthew had no actual intention of doing that, but he was humoring his cousin and did very much enjoy seeing the Spanish countryside.)

Drunk from too much red wine, Matthew and the girl—he was embarrassed by the fact that he did not remember her name—stumbled into her dormitory and very awkwardly started to kiss and remove their clothing. They didn't actually get to the sex because the wine got to be a bit too much for the girl, and she proceeded to get sick all over the floor. Matthew re-dressed himself and her, got her a tonic, tucked her into bed and walked back to his hostel, only to find that his cousin had been more successful in his attempts at bedding someone. Matthew was forced to spend the rest of the night sipping hot chocolate at a 24-hour café next door.

A year later, Matthew would make the mistake of sharing this encounter with his new friend Tom, who had not taken a gap year and was eager to learn what those who did got up to. It was a mistake because from then on, anytime a new girl would approach Tom to flirt with him and Matthew happened to be present, Tom would jokingly turn to Matthew and ask, "Shall I take her to Barcelona?" And girls approaching Tom to flirt happened rather often.

The second time, there was sex, though that did not make the encounter any less unfortunate. The woman, Elaine Smith, was a partner at his law practice. He didn't know her well when she sat next to him one evening at a pub many of his coworkers frequented afterhours. She had just broken up with her boyfriend, she'd told him, and was in dreadful need of something—someone—that would help her take her mind off things. He was still new in Dublin and did not yet have many friends outside of those Tom had introduced him to, so he stayed talking with her late. At the end of the evening, she offered him a ride home but took her to her own place instead. Things had gone pleasantly enough, but the next day, when he went to her office to say hello, he found her and her boyfriend less than clothed and very much in the process of getting back together.

That afternoon, he met Lavinia Swire.

She had come to the office that day with her father, who was updating his will after having sold his business to a competitor and come into a great deal of money in the process. As they were leaving, Mr. Swire stopped to go to the loo and slipped and broke his wrist on the way in. Matthew was there by coincidence and helped him get back up, escorting him, with Lavinia's help, back to their car. The day after that, she called to thank him and to ask him to dinner.

It occurred to Matthew now, as he was lying on Sybil's guest bed next to a sleeping Mary, that that was the only other time in his life a woman had made the first move with him. Looking over at Mary now, he still wasn't sure what to make of last night or her sudden proposition. It had been nice, though. _Quite_ nice.

She was lying asleep with her back to him. Her hair, which had been in a delicate, precarious knot on the side of her neck the night before was loose, and he could see now that it was longer than he had realized. He turned to the night table, where there was a picture of her with Sybil. He could see the resemblance and thought both beautiful, but from their hair to their clothing to the way they smiled, what felt uninhibited and natural about Sybil was very much controlled and refined in Mary.

_Two words_ , he thought, _that I would not use to describe her in bed._

He brought his hand to his face to restrain a laugh. What about last night _hadn't_ been a surprise?

"What's so funny?"

He turned and there she was, perfectly calm, perfectly awake. _Perfectly beautiful._

"Nothing."

They both laid there, looking at the ceiling for a long moment.

_Is there something one is supposed to say?_

"Look, I—"

"I don't—"

He had to laugh at the awkwardness and laugh again when he caught her, out of the corner of his eye, rolling her eyes. She, it seemed, had no patience for awkwardness.

"Go ahead," he said.

"No, you go," she insisted.

"Well, I was going to say that I don't do this often, so I'm not quite sure what the next step is. And I also realize that saying you don't do this often is what people say, but nevertheless, it's true in my case."

"Well, I've never done it at all."

Matthew's heart leapt to his throat. _Surely, she didn't mean . . ._

"Please don't tell me this was your first time," he said, unable to keep at least some alarm from his voice.

"What? God, I'm not a _virgin_ —not that that's any of your business. I meant that I've never slept with someone I'd just met. So I have no insight as to our current predicament."

Matthew let out a sigh of relief, which, for whatever reason, made her laugh.

"Well, I suppose I'll be flattered by your assumptions regarding my virtue," she said, making them both laugh and releasing whatever tension lingered between them. It didn't answer the question, however, of what happens now.

"It's funny," she continued after a moment, "This will make me sound old fashioned, but thinking about it, I don't believe I've slept with someone I didn't dance with first."

"Oh. Did that affect things at all?"

"I'm not sure . . ." She looked at him for a long moment, Matthew thought with a look that suggested she wanted to say more, but instead, she turned back toward the ceiling. "What time is it, anyway?"

He turned to the night table again. "It's 11 a.m."

"WHAT?" She quickly rolled over to his side and propped herself up on her elbow, the better to look at the clock herself. She was practically on top of him, unfazed by the sudden proximity. "Ugh. I haven't slept this late in years."

He watched her to see if she, too, had just noticed, in their sudden proximity, that they were still naked.

"I should probably be off," she said, moving back to her side of the bed to get up.

_I guess that's that, then._

Matthew likewise turned to get up, and they both silently and discretely slipped their underwear back on, on their respective sides of the bed.

"I'm going to wash up," Mary said, without looking at him, but as she reached the doorway, she turned back to him with a soft smile. "Thank you, by the way, for taking me down off the ledge."

He smiled back at her. "It was my pleasure."

Hearing the shower go off, Matthew laid back down on the bed and thought about how very different this was from how he had expected his first time with a woman after Lavinia's death to go. What he had assumed would happen, of course, was sex as the natural progression of a relationship that would have been marked by a series of "firsts." First date since Lavinia. First kiss since Lavinia. First gift. First fight. On and on it would have gone until the first _time_ since Lavinia, each first like a tiny nail slowly picking away at a scab, ever so painfully, until it was gone. Instead of that, last night, Mary had simply ripped the Band-Aid clean off. And this morning, Matthew found that where that Band-Aid had been, the scab was gone. The wound was healed.

Here was a one night stand, then, that Matthew would remember fondly. If that's what it had to be.

Hearing the water stop, he stood up, quickly found some sweats and a T-shirt and headed over to the living room to give Mary some privacy.

He thought about what he might do today and settled on a walk around Sybil's neighborhood to look for a newspaper and somewhere to have dinner. When he'd arranged the swap with her, he hadn't really thought long about what he would do once in London. He wasn't really one to see the sights, but he didn't want to stay cooped up all day either. He was working very hard not to show it outwardly, but the longer the morning went, the more Mary's presence, even in the next room, was rattling him. He wasn't sure he could think about anything else until she left—but he also didn't want her to leave.

About 15 minutes later, Mary walked out into the living room looking polished and smart wearing a dark red blouse and blue trousers. Nothing in her dress or demeanor suggested now that she'd had anything but a perfect night. Matthew suddenly felt very inadequate in his sweats.

"I should be glad that this is it between us," he said, trying his hand at informality with her. "If the task were to be seen with you in public, I'm not sure I would pass muster."

"Don't sell yourself short," she said with a wry smile. "I've a feeling you clean up very well."

She approached him, and he was about to offer his hand for a parting shake when she surprised him by stepping up to him and very softly kissing his cheek. She stepped away and looked at him with something in her eyes he couldn't quite place.

As she walked to the door, he thought, _Was it wistfulness?_

"Mary."

She turned, her demeanor still warm, but whatever he thought he had seen in her eyes was gone.

"Do you have a favorite restaurant in the neighborhood? I need some ideas for dinner tonight. I'm not much of a cook."

"Jasper's. It's Italian, about six blocks from here. The food isn't the best in town, but the tiramisu and the wine list are both excellent. I must warn you, though, it's a formal dining room so you'll have to do better than that." She pointed at his current duds.

He laughed and replied, "That's all right. I never travel without a suit."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Well, good. Would that every man were as thoughtful about their dress."

He smiled inwardly, happy to have impressed her. _Oh, just go on._

"You know, if you wanted to, you could join me."

She hesitated. "I don't know, Matthew. I had a lovely time last night, but I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"And if I promise there will be no Turks present?"

She laughed and said, "Then you'll have an easy time getting home."

She looked at him with a genuine smile again. The one he'd seen last night just before, and he knew now, as then, that she was giving him something special.

"Good luck to you, Matthew." With that she left.

Matthew dropped his chin to his chest and smiled ruefully to himself. He ambled over to the sofa and plopped down with a big sigh. After a moment, he sat up to pick up his mobile from the coffee table and typed out a text to Tom.

"I went to Barcelona."

He laughed, then deleted it.


	8. Chapter 8

 

**Sybil**

"But why _didn't_ you wake him up?"

Sybil laughed at Gwen's exasperation. For the last hour, she had been recounting in great detail her time with Tom up to and including how he must have carried her to bed and his lovely note. After waking up, having slept until the very late morning, she'd gone for a short walk to buy some provisions for the evening. Upon returning to the flat, she called Gwen to fill her in and get her advice on how to make this evening equally memorable.

"He just looked so lovely and peaceful. And the night had been so wonderful. It was like—we didn't _need_ to kiss."

"Oh, so you were _happy_ Mary called, were you?"

"Well, of course not."

"And you do actually want to kiss him now?"

Sybil took her mobile from her ear and held it in front of her mouth, screaming into it, "OBVIOUSLY."

Gwen laughed, apparently happy to have finally gotten a rise out of her over-the-moon friend.

"Well, I'm glad it's gone so well. I do believe you owe me massive thanks for having suggested you take this holiday in the first place."

"I do," Sybil replied somewhat sheepishly. _God save Gwen for having insisted on the trip and the house-swap with Matthew._

"When exactly is he getting back?"

"I don't know. In my text, I told him to surprise me."

"So it could be any second?" Gwen asked with a bit of alarm.

"I suppose."

"Well, get off the bloody phone!"

Sybil laughed again, then thought for a moment. There was something else she wanted to ask Gwen. Something that had been lingering in the back of her mind since she'd found him asleep on the floor, something that had crept up on her after her talk with Mary had allowed her mind to slow down and take stock of the flood of emotion that was overtaking her.

"Gwen, do you think it's weird," Sybil finally asked, quietly.

"Do I think what's weird?"

"This. How quickly it's all happened. I mean, I do think I'm falling in love with him and it's barely been a day. How can that be possible? It's weird, right?"

Gwen let out a quiet laugh. More like a sigh, as if sensing what her friend was scared of, a friend who, for all her rebellions, sometimes still needed to be reminded of how brave she was.

"Oh, Syb. Of course, it's weird. That doesn't mean it isn't real."

Sybil let out a long breath. One she didn't realize she had been holding.

"Thanks, Gwen. What would I do without you?"

"You would never kiss men that should be kissed."

Sybil laughed out loud again.

"Well," Gwen added, "I am satisfied that I've effectively talked you up for tonight. I will let you to your waiting for Mr. Perfect."

"Thanks, again. Truly."

"It's what I'm here for, love."

Sybil hung up the phone and then turned it off with a smile, remembering her promise to him. Gwen's words had reassured her, but she still couldn't help but wonder how it all came to happen so fast. She'd been immediately attracted to men before. This was more than that. She'd made fast friends before, too.

Her mind drifted to Tom Bellasis. _What is it about Toms!_ She thought with a smile.

He was a young soldier she'd worked with in her first week on the job who had an uncanny ability to make her laugh. Ten minutes into her session with him, he had her in stitches over a story from his time during basic training. A few short months after that first meeting, his sister sent her a letter notifying her of his death in an automobile accident. Despite having only talked with him several times, she had felt the loss deeply.

This was more than that, too.

Tom. _This_ Tom was well read and smart and funny and engaging and, yes, easy on the eyes. But in Sybil's mind even the sum of those things didn't fully explain this sudden outpouring of feelings in her. Sybil began to suppose it was how he spoke to _her_. How he engaged _her_. How he related to _her_. And how she, in turn, understood him. It wasn't just that he knew and talked about important things. It was that the things he talked about were important to _her_ and moving and . . . familiar. It was as if they were continuing a conversation that had been going on for years, like he was a long lost friend she was now seeing in a new light. A long lost friend she very, very much wanted to kiss.

She continued to contemplate her feelings for a few more minutes. Then, with a new found resolution, she pulled herself up from the bed, where she'd laid down to talk to Gwen, to get herself ready.

Once bathed, she stood over her suitcase and remembered, to her utter dismay, that she hadn't packed a single dress. Sybil sat on the bed with a sigh, hearing Mary's voice in her head.

_It's your own fault for not packing for every possible occasion._

She couldn't help but laugh as she thought of all the times Mary showed up at her flat with practically a trunk full of clothes and matching accessories for a single night out in London. It had gotten so ridiculous, Sybil eventually bought an extra wardrobe so Mary and Edith could keep some extra clothes in her flat. After a time, Sybil couldn't help but notice, Mary's clothes were taking up most of the space.

Sybil eventually settled on a tight-fitting black top with white polka-dots and black trousers. She dried and straightened her hair. She did this only rarely, but she liked how grown-up and polished it made her look.

Finally, feeling ready, she took her "improved" guidebook to the sofa and started reading. She laughed at his notes and edits on practically every other page and at his barely legible handwriting.

About halfway through the book, she decided to open one of the bottles of wine she'd bought earlier in the day. As Sybil was sitting back down, glass in hand, the knock on the door startled her so much, she spilled the wine all over the front of her shirt and on the carpet.

_So much for greeting him all sleek and sophisticated._

Sybil ran to the kitchen for a towel, wet it and ran back into the living room to throw on the puddle on the floor. Tom started to knock again just as she got to the door. She threw it open, practically screamed "come in" and left him there, his smile turning into bewilderment, at she ran to the back to change quickly before the stain set on the carpet. She threw off her blouse and put on the first T-shirt she came across in her suitcase, which now looked like it had exploded, leaving a mess of clothes all over the room.

Sybil ran back out into the living room and the stain in time to see him finally step into the apartment.

"Is everything all right?"

"I've ruined Matthew's carpet, I'm afraid. And my blouse." She crouched down and started blotting the stain. "Bloody hell."

"Don't fret." Sybil turned to find him now very close, crouched on the carpet beside her and smiling sweetly at her. "This carpet is littered with evidence of my inability to keep liquid in a glass—particularly of the alcoholic varieties." She returned his smile and laughed when he added, "You can blame it on me if you want."

"Well, I'm going to because it really was your fault. Your knock startled me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm glad you're here."

They looked at each other for a long moment, both still crouching on the floor. He turned his head, and Sybil thought he might be going in for a kiss— _At last!_ —but instead he furrowed his brow a bit and asked, "Have you done something different with your hair?"

His gaze made Sybil momentarily self-conscious, and she awkwardly stood back up.

"I straightened it. Not something I do often. Just special occasions. You don't like it?" She scrunched her face, suddenly embarrassed by her feeble attempts to make herself look nice for him.

He, now also standing, took a step away from her as if _he_ was embarrassed about being the person Sybil was making an effort for. Looking at his feet, he said quietly, "Sybil, there isn't anything about you I don't like."

She smiled—and blushed. He looked up again and as their eyes met, she still sensed a bit of lingering awkwardness. If there had been a moment for a passionate lip-locked greeting, it had passed.

"Well, now the bottle's open might as well finish it. Would you like some?" She asked motioning to the kitchen.

"Sure," he said.

They walked over to the kitchen, and she went the cabinet for a glass.

"So what were you doing when I startled you—other than trying to drink wine?"

She stopped and turned to him with a wry and not entirely un-flirtatious smile, "I was reading your masterpiece."

A funny look came over his face. "Oh, you mean the guidebook."

"Yes, and you have improved it considerably. I might have to add it to my list of favorites," she said, turning back to the cabinet.

"I don't suppose you'll read it as many times as you've read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," he responded with a laugh.

"No. Although Portrait isn't my record."

"Isn't it your favorite book?"

"It's my favorite book of Joyce's, but not my favorite overall."

"And what might that be?"

"The Radical Chauffer. It's written by a Dubliner as well. I guess I have a thing for you Irish boys."

When she said that, she had been pouring his wine, her back turned to him. She was about to say something else, but as she turned around to hand him the glass, she saw that his expression had turned ashen.

"Tom?" It was as if all the blood had drained from his face. He stared blankly at her and remained silent. "Are you all right? . . . Tom?"

He remained in a daze, as if looking at empty space, but upon hearing his name again, he blinked several times and looked at her, this time directly, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

"Did Matthew put you up to this?"

"What?" _What?_

"The book—what you just said—everything you've said since you've been here."

Sybil was confused and starting to worry. His tone had completely changed, shifting from confusion to something that felt a bit like anger.

"Tom, I'm not sure what you're talking about."

But he'd stopped paying attention to her and started pacing and rubbing his neck with his hand. It felt to Sybil as if he had lost something and was trying to retrace his steps to figure out where it was.

"Tom, you're starting to worry me. What's wrong?"

He stopped suddenly, looked at her for a long moment. He then said, "I have to go," and practically ran out the door, closing it behind him.

Sybil felt faint. She was still holding the glass of wine she'd intended to give him. Slowly, without being fully aware of what she was doing, she turned back to the kitchen counter, set the glass down, put both hands on the counter and took a moment to steady herself.

_What just happened?_

Carefully, as if putting a puzzle together, she went over in her mind every thing that had occurred in the ten minutes since she'd opened the wine bottle: She'd poured herself a drink, she'd walked over to the sofa, he'd knocked, she'd spilled her wine, she'd run to the kitchen, she'd let him in, she'd gone to change, he'd complimented her, they'd walked to the kitchen, she'd poured him a glass of wine, she'd turned to him and . . . Nothing. She kept replaying the events over and over in her mind, her words too, but she couldn't discern what had made him leave so suddenly and in such agitation.

Matthew. That was all she could come up with. Tom thought Matthew had put her up to something. _But what could he be talking about? And why would he leave so upset?_ For twenty minutes, she exhausted herself trying to decipher it, trying to decipher _him_ , until she was forced to admit Matthew was her only recourse.

She found Matthew's number, then walked over to her hangbag, took out her mobile, turned it back on— _No bloody interruptions today_ , she thought sardonically—and dialed.

"Hello."

"Hi, Matthew, it's Sybil Crawley," she said, unsure of whether he could hear in her voice how upset she was.

"Sybil, hi. Um. How are you? Is everything OK with the flat?"

"Oh, yes, fine." She remembered her spill and suddenly felt like crying. "Actually, I've just spilt some wine on your carpet. I'll have it cleaned up before I leave—I'm really sorry."

"Oh, it's no problem. It's hardly in pristine condition. My friend Tom spills practically every time he's over."

_Tom._

"Um, about him." Sybil's heart was in her throat. The sad cynic that hadn't wanted to take the trip in the first place—that had been satisfied with settling for the likes of Larry Grey—suddenly rose up in her, telling Sybil that she didn't really want to ask Matthew anything at all.

_Forget this and proceed with the solitary trip you'd originally wanted._

"Sybil?"

But the sad cynic couldn't win, not after the night Sybil had had. Even if it came to nothing, she had to know. _Why did he just leave?_

"Sybil is there something wrong?"

After a long sigh, that might have also released a small tear, she asked, "Matthew, is there something wrong with Tom? I mean, is he troubled about something?"

Matthew let out a mirthless laugh. "Tom's troubles? Honestly, Sybil—and, I say this as his best friend—when it comes to Tom's troubles, I wouldn't know where to begin."

Matthew's response surprised her, and her concern about herself, about them, became concern for him. "How do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain, especially to someone he's just met. Did, um, did something happen between you? Mary said he was over last night."

"He was. The thing is, we, well . . . we kind of hit it off. Nothing happened, really. We just spent the evening walking around the city and talking. It was quite nice, but something happened today that put him off, and I just wondered if there was anything I should know, anything I could help with. I understand if you don't want to say. I wouldn't want you to betray any confidences."

"No, it's all right." Matthew paused and took a deep breath, as if weighing what he would say. "Well, he's still grieving his father, for one. It was five years ago, but it was incredibly hard on him. Then there's his writer's block. Th—"

"Writer's block?" This served to confuse Sybil further.

"They're kind of related actually. His father had a massive heart attack the week before it was released, he died five days after."

"The week what was released?"

"The Radical Chauffer."

Sybil almost lost her grasp on the phone. She looked down to her other hand, which was still holding the piece of paper she had written Matthew's number on. It was shaking. "What, um. What are you talking about?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Tom's book. He wrote it just after we finished at Cambridge—start to finish in like two months, it was insane. It was published about a year later, but there was no publicity done because of Mr. Branson's death. Tom was depressed for about a year after that and hasn't really wanted to write anything since."

"So, um, just so I'm sure. Tom is Tom _Branson?_ Tom Branson author of The Radical Chauffer?"

"Well, uh, yeah. I suppose I'm not surprised he didn't mention to you he'd written a book. He hates talking about it—you've heard of it?" Matthew's confusion was apparent in his voice. But now everything was clear to Sybil. _Everything_. And she felt lightheaded again, not with confusion or concern, but with disbelief and relief and love. A love about which she was now deeply and soundly certain.

"Oh. Thank you, Matthew."

"Was that it, then?" The sudden turn in her mood clearly puzzled him. If he could hear her crying, he didn't say.

"Yes, I understand now. Thank you. And I'll have the carpet cleaned I promise."

"There's really no need."

"OK. Well, thank you, again, really."

"All right. Bye."

Sybil threw her head back and laughed, her heart so full of love for him, for her life, her friends, her family, for the stranger that had opened his home to her, for everything under the sun because it was in this world that she had found him and in it she would rescue him like he had rescued her.

**XXX**

About an hour later she was at his door, propelled here by pure adrenaline. That was what had pushed her off the sofa first to ready herself (again), then to the kitchen table where she sat down to write exactly what she would say to him and finally to his flat, thanks to the guidebook in which he helpfully, if unwittingly, had drawn her a map to his heart's precise location.

Taking one last breath to collect herself, she knocked.

It didn't take him long to get to the door, and Sybil felt her heart leap to her throat as she heard him open it. He looked a bit disheveled. A passerby might have thought he'd just woken from a nap, except that his eyes, which were clearly reddened from crying, gave the true state of things away. The sight of him was almost enough to break her heart—and it offered her a window into the heartbreak he had already lived.

"Listen, Syb—"

"Tom, I know—"

They both smiled, though his did not reach his eyes.

"I'd like to go first, if that's OK," she said quietly.

He nodded, not really looking at her.

"I've written it all down actually," she said and reached into her handbag for a sheet of paper. "And I'd like for you not to interrupt."

She could see in his eyes, he had no inkling as to what she would say. She proceeded.

"Dearest Tom," she paused here and looked up to him again. He sighed as if bracing himself for what was coming.

"I've spent most of today wondering how it was that I came to be in love with you in basically a day's time. It scared me a bit because it's not something that happens everyday and certainly not to someone like me. What I didn't realize until this afternoon was that I was wrong—"

"About falling in love with me," he interjected, a look of sad resignation on his face.

"Don't interrupt!"

He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to continue.

"What I didn't realize until this afternoon was that I was wrong, _not_ "—and with this, she looked at him pointedly—"about falling in love with you, but about how long it's been. Because you see, it turns out, that I started falling in love when I read your book the first time, and I've fallen a little deeper each time I've read it. And yesterday, before I knew who you were and what you'd written, it didn't feel like I was falling in love for the first time. It felt like I was already there. It felt like I was returning home, because that's what you are to me. That's what you have always been."

Here she took a deep breath, but couldn't bring herself to look at him, not yet.

"So whatever you may think Matthew has done to bring me here, put it out of your mind because this is only about you and me. And I know how it's all going to end now. I'm just helping you catch up. Yours, Sybil."

At this, she folded the piece of paper, put it back in her handbag and finally set her eyes on him. He'd barely moved, though she could see now fresh tears pooling in his eyes.

"Can I say something now?"

"Yes, or you can ki—"

Whether it was the best kiss in the history of kisses is, of course, arguable. But Sybil would always think that it was.

Before she'd finished inviting him to do just that, Tom brought his lips to hers and wrapped his arms around her with a force that lifted her off her feet and made her feel a bit like she was floating. Later, if you'd told her that they'd stayed there, at his doorway, for hours, she'd have believed it. When he finally did pull her into the flat, he pulled her all the way to his bedroom, breaking the kiss only to breathe and laugh and wipe tears, hers and his, and to facilitate the removal of clothing. Because while they had waited what felt like an eternity to kiss, though really it was just a day, there would be no, absolutely no waiting for everything that came after.

They'd just tumbled onto his bed, down to just their undies, when he lifted himself off of her suddenly. Thinking of earlier this afternoon, she sat up too, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"What is it?"

The look in his face was not confusion or anger, as it had been before, but annoyance.

"Well, I hate to say this, but I don't have any protection here."

"Oh . . . why?"

"Well, it's kind of been a while."

"How long?"

"A few years."

"How come?"

He shrugged and laughed ruefully, "Waiting for you to come along, I suppose."

Sybil smiled, "Well, that's OK. I have some in my bag."

At this, he threw his head back and laughed, with what Sybil could only describe as intense relief.

She, laughing too, wrapped her arms around his neck again and pulled him down on top of her. She was ready to lose herself in his kiss again, but he stopped her. His face hovering ever so close to hers, he said the words his Irish chauffer liked to say to his beloved British lady, words that Tom had written and that Sybil had read and loved over and over and over again.

"Oh, my darling, I do love you so much."

Sybil felt like her heart would burst. She was home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Tom**

"When we were at Matthew's flat earlier, why did you run away?"

"Are you always this inquisitive after sex?"

"Do you always avoid difficult questions?"

Tom playfully narrowed his eyes at Sybil. Her already bright smile widened.

"Is this how you get your soldiers to share all their painful secrets, by leveraging your feminine wiles?"

"Only the really tough cases," she said, laughing and making his chest shake. He couldn't help but grin back.

They were on the sofa, where Sybil had dropped her bag on the way to his bedroom, where she'd run back a while later for condoms, with Tom hot on her heels, and where they'd ripped the box open and made quick use of several, not bothering go back to his bed when there was a perfectly good surface right here. Now, a couple of hours later, here they remained, Tom lying on his back, Sybil on top of him, her chin on her hands, which were resting one on top of the other on his chest. With his head on the armrest, he was looking down on her slightly, the better to appreciate how sexy she looked right now and how very lucky he felt—if slightly emotionally overwhelmed.

_The girl of your dreams just walked into your life—oh, and by the way, she knows you wrote something once and she kind of loves you for it. But she wants to know why you're such a train wreck. Overwhelmed is right. Slightly? Not so much. Overwhelmingly overwhelmed. That covers it._

"So?" She pressed.

"So what?" He knew he was avoiding. He couldn't help it.

"So are you going to answer my question?"

He sighed. _How to even begin._

"You know, Tom," she continued softly, "I've fantasized about this moment for the better part of the last four years, never mind the last 24 hours. If you think a little emotional dysfunction is going to scare me off, let me disavow you of that notion right now, once and for all."

At this she moved her hands to either side of him and pushed herself up so she was the one looking down on him. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered and, as if to press her point, added, "Trust me."

"I do trust you. It's me that's the problem."

"Well, then let me worry about you."

_Who could possibly defend their emotions against that? Who would want to?_

Tom lifted his hand to her cheek and contemplated her for a long moment. He did trust her, and he'd do whatever she asked. But he was scared about what he would find, what would happen, when he stepped through what, until last night, had been a very tightly locked vault inside his heart. Because it wasn't shut up so tight just to keep other people out. Mostly, it was to keep himself from having to go back in.

Tom pulled Sybil down for a long kiss—something he knew he'd never grow tired of—then hugged her to his chest.

"Well," he started with a sigh. "When you mentioned the book, two scenarios went through my mind. One, you knew who I was the whole time because of Matthew and had concocted a plan with him to get me to start writing again by pretending you didn't know me and pushing the exact right buttons. Intervention via hot girl who loves James Joyce."

He could feel her cheeks curve into a smile. "You're terribly full of yourself if you think two people would put on such a stage play just to get you to open up."

"In my defense, everything that came out of your mouth last night was the exact right thing to say in order to turn me on."

"You were afraid the night had been _too_ perfect?"

"I got suspicious, yes."

"What was the second thing you thought?"

"That you really didn't know who I was and that everything you had said you really meant and that I was in love with a girl who was not going to be in love with me when she found out that her favorite author was a bit of a fraud and generally speaking a crushing disappointment."

"So you panicked?"

"More or less."

Sybil lifted her head from where it had been on Tom's chest. "Are you panicking now?"

He looked into her eyes and thought for a long moment. "Not as much as before."

She smiled playfully at him. "And how much of that has to do with the fact that we're naked?"

He smirked. "It helps, I'll admit it."

She rested her head against his chest again and laughed, a wonderfully healing thing to hear and to feel against his skin.

He put on a mock serious tone and continued, "It's been so long, I'd forgotten how a good shagging really does help calm the nerves."

She kept on giggling. And he decided that making her laugh was a thing he would do every day forever so could keep getting to hear her, feel her doing it. The laughter subsided after a few minutes, and he felt her get serious again.

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"The bit about me not loving you because I'll be disappointed? Do you really think that will happen?"

"Can't say I'm not scared about it, if I'm honest." He shifted them around so they were both on their sides looking straight at one another. "Sybil, the person who wrote that book I'm not sure I can be again. I love that it means something to you, and if there's anyone in the world I'd be willing to let in to that part of my life it's you. But I do need you to at least like who I am now even if I'm not a writer anymore."

"For the record, I more than like who you are now," she replied. Then, taking his hand and putting it over his heart, pressing it there with her own, she went on. "But the guy who wrote the book is still here. I know because that's who was taking me around Dublin. I told you I fell in love with you reading your words, and I mean that. What happened last night was my heart _recognized_ you. There will never be greater proof to me that you're not a fraud than that."

Tom felt his eyes clouding over with tears again, and he felt himself tentatively reach into that vault and pull something out.

"Once, when I was eight, I had this little girlfriend Kathleen Murphy, and one day I found her on the school playground kissing some other boy, and I ran home crying. My Da found me and said, 'Tommy, if you're going to cry over every girl who tells you she loves you, you're going to run of tears before you hit 10, so why don't you save them for the ones who mean it.'"

Sybil smiled widely, grateful for this small gift. He could see in her eyes that she knew it would be the first of many. "Well, I do mean it, but surely, today will be the end of any tears having to do with me, won't it?"

Tom smiled back. "My darling, I will be crying about you every day for the rest of my life."

He pulled her into a long kiss, after which they settled into a comfortable silence, her head nestled once more into the crook of his neck.

Then, she spoke up again. She really was chatty after. He would tease her about it more, if he didn't love the sound of her voice so much.

"So what happens now?"

"Well, the pattern we seem to have established is that we have sex, we talk for a while and then we do it again."

"I mean after today, after this week. You know . . . when I've gone back to London."

"Well what do you want to happen?"

"You like avoiding my questions, don't you?"

He laughed. "Well, I do want this to be something. I suppose I could move to London."

"I could move here."

"What about your work?"

"What about yours?"

"Mine is not nearly so important or interesting."

"Would you really want to leave Ireland?"

"I've never really thought about it to be honest. I guess if you'd asked me before yesterday I would have said no, but that doesn't mean that I couldn't ever." He paused for a moment. _Would she really come here?_ "Have you ever wanted to leave England?"

"Well, I have once already. I went to university in America. That was actually where I read your book the first time."

"How did you even hear about it anyway? You might be the first person I've ever met who's read it who didn't know me before I wrote it."

"My second semester I took a seminar called, 'Revolution in Irish Literature.' Your book wasn't on the curriculum, but I'd loved everything I'd read so much I asked the professor to recommend other books to me, and yours was one of the ones she mentioned. I don't know how she heard of it, but she did seem to be aware that not many people had."

"I suppose I should be grateful to her."

He felt her squeeze him tightly. "I am."

"What made you go all the way over there for school?"

"I wanted to broaden my horizons, I suppose. It was where my Grandmother Martha went to school."

"The grandmother who liked reading?"

"Yes. She's still alive, though a bit frail. She'll be coming for New Year's."

"I suppose I should be grateful to her as well."

"Very much."

They were quiet again for a few minutes, Tom marveling at the way life had gently steered them toward one another. _Very grateful, indeed._

"I would move here, you know. I mean, I _want_ to." She lifted herself up again to look into his eyes, as if to assure him that she was serious.

"I'm not saying that I wouldn't like that very much, but we don't have to decide now," he replied.

"But I don't want you to worry about me, about the future."

"I'm not. All that matters is whether or not you love me. The rest is detail."

And he meant it. The hardest part—finding her and opening himself up to the possibility of being in love, truly in love—was done. The detail wouldn't always be easy, but that's really all it was. As overwhelming and scary as it had been to feel a torrent of emotion he had taken for granted could always be kept at bay, now that he was awash in it, he wasn't going to sweat the small stuff. Whatever had to be done to be with her, he would do it.

Satisfied, at least for the moment, on that score, she settled back into him and asked,

"What about the more immediate future?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like Christmas and New Year's—your _birthday_."

"I think I've established that I like to ignore my birthday, so if you could promise that you'll abide by that, I—"

"I will make no such promise!"

"Sybil—"

"If you're worried about me throwing a big party for you, I'll at least rid you of those concerns. My parents always have a big to-do on New Year's. It's a bit of family tradition."

"Well, then New Year's with your family and Christmas with mine?"

"That sounds fun, doesn't it?"

"Fun? The Branson clan can be a bit of a handful, but they do tend to be more entertaining than usual during the holidays. But won't yours mind you'll be here?"

"They can manage without me. Besides I had told my mother I was skipping the ball this year. She'll be so happy I'm attending after all, she'll hold her tongue on everything else."

"The _ball_?"

"Um, yeah. It's white tie, actually."

"White tie? Is it at Buckingham Palace?"

He could feel her start to squirm a bit. "No, just Downton," she said, then giggled, though he sensed a measure of nervousness behind it.

"Downton?"

"Downton Abbey. It's my family's home in Yorkshire."

"You mean like an estate?"

"Sort of." Yes, she was definitely squirming.

"And how long has it been in your family."

"I'm not really sure. I think 150 years or so."

He moved so that they were facing each other again, unable to keep the shock from his brow as he asked his next question.

"Sybil, are you an aristocrat?"

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I would never call myself that."

"What's your father's title?"

"The Earl of Grantham," she said quietly, and he could see actual concern in her face now. "Do you hate that?"

He laughed a full-throated laugh, "I can't believe I've fallen for a member of the British aristocracy." He kept laughing as she punched him in the shoulder. Once he caught his breath again, he raised his finger, as if to ask for quiet. "That sound you hear right now is my father rolling over in his grave."

"Tom," she said, "I do hope you know I really don't care about all of that."

"I don't either, Sybil. I'm only teasing." He squeezed her gently and kissed her on her temple.

Quietly, almost meekly, she asked, "Do you really think your father wouldn't have liked me?"

He looked into the blue depths of her eyes. "Sybil, I am very certain that he would have loved you."

She smiled, and it was as beautiful and as bright as any she had given him. "Well, I am very grateful to him."

"Me too."

And with that they kissed, igniting once again the spark that landed them on the sofa in the first place. He turned them so he was on top of her, and he could feel her hunger grow beneath him. Their kisses, their touches increased in intensity and before long they were fumbling around the floor for the condoms that had scattered everywhere hours ago in their desperate effort to use the first.

"Here's one!" Sybil exclaimed, now sitting astride him, having just lifted her hand from the floor where she'd found it. "But can we move to the bed now? This thing makes so much noise, I'm rather afraid we're going to break it."

"Well, now I'm keen to take that as a challenge."

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was her laugh again. _I'll always want to hear it_ , he thought, _I'll always_ need _to hear it_.

**XXX**

Another hour or so later, closer to the end of their precious box's contents, they were on his bed again, sofa intact—for now.

Sybil lay on her stomach, her head turned toward Tom, watching him as he, on his side, head propped on his hand, drew patterns with his fingers on her back.

"Can I ask _you_ something?" he asked.

"Sure," she replied.

He could not repress the smirk on his face. "How many times have you read it?"

"How many times have I read what?" There was nothing innocent, he knew, about her innocent-seeming response.

"Oh, you know what."

"You really are terribly full of yourself, aren't you?"

"I'm only asking a question," he replied, equally faux-innocently. He was making her squirm, and he was loving it.

She scrunched up her face in embarrassment. "Do I really have to say?"

"Can I guess?"

"Eight." She buried her face in her pillow, but it wasn't enough to muffle her laughter.

"Are you embarrassed?"

She lifted her head again, so he could see her full blush. _My, she is beautiful_.

"Do you know," he said, pulling her over him, "I believe that's the number of condoms in that box."

"What a poetic coincidence! Shall we finish it off, then?"

And they did.


	10. Chapter 10

 

**Mary**

Mary took a deep breath, walked through the door, stopped just as she had crossed the threshold and immediately ran back outside. This had been going on for the last five minutes, and Mary was getting angrier and angrier at herself the longer it went. Usually, she was so sure of what she wanted. She couldn't really make heads or tails of why she was turning into such an indecisive, dithering fool.

_A proper schoolgirl, for heaven's sake._

Actually, she knew why. A few hours ago, when Mary had decided that she would, in fact, stay in London one more night and join Matthew for dinner, she felt certain, both of herself and of the decision. But now that she was here outside Jasper's, she was crumbling, and Mary did not like the feeling.

It was the suit.

On her first attempt to walk in, Mary spotted Matthew easily. He was standing over his table, toward the back of the restaurant, as the server removed the extra place settings and poured his water. Once the server had finished, Matthew sat down, unbuttoning his jacket in the process. Mary saw it clear as day—he was wearing a waistcoat. Mr. Matthew Crawley was wearing a three-piece suit. _A bloody three-piece suit._

The perfectly perfect _perfection_ of the whole thing sent her running back into the street. Matthew had once again set her off balance without even trying, without even knowing, really. It wasn't just about his clothes—although, he was wearing that suit very nicely. It was the fact that he met Mary's expectations, exceeded them even, when for Mary the whole point of expectations was to protect herself from men by setting them impossibly high. Nobody was supposed to actually reach them, certainly not a lawyer who shared her last name and lived in Dublin.

If she had walked in and he'd been wearing anything else, she would have easily kept her cool and judged him and last night's encounter on her own terms. But no, he had to go and wear the exact right thing and he had to look so good doing it that she didn't know which end was up. _How is a girl supposed to make any rational decisions when he is looking like that?_ But she was here, and she wanted to see him, talk to him. By God, she was going to go in or die trying.

Mary took one more deep breath and went for the door again. Whether or not she was going to wimp out this time became a moot point when he looked up to the door just as she was walking through it. Their eyes met, and his smile, the very same that had put her off balance last night, gave her confidence, and she strode through the floor as if there had never been a doubt in her mind.

He stood— _of course, he did_ —as she approached the table and moved to pull out the chair next to him. Mary realized then that the server she'd seen when spying on Matthew and his waistcoat a few minutes earlier had left not one place setting but two. She smiled at his confidence. She liked it.

He didn't seem surprised to see her there, and she once again marveled at what an even keel he seemed to keep at all times.

"Your timing is perfect," he said. "I haven't ordered the wine yet."

"Good," she replied, settling in, now feeling more like herself. "I would hate for you to have chosen something I didn't like, like rosé. Please don't tell me you drink that because if you do we can never be friends."

"Well, if I did drink it, you can be sure I would never admit to it now."

"No one should admit to it," she said, making him laugh. She liked doing that.

After a minute or so of perusing her menu, she noticed him looking at her strangely, making her wonder whether he really hadn't been surprised by her appearance.

"I was wondering how long it was going to take you to finally decide to come in and sit down," he said finally, with a mischievous smile.

_Brilliant._ "You saw that, did you?" So he wasn't surprised because he'd seen her. Worse, he'd seen her indecision. Mary didn't blush, of course. She never did that, but she rolled her eyes at herself and didn't bother hiding it. Why bother when he had already seen a greater embarrassment.

Seemingly eager to put her at ease, he gave her a small smile and said, "I considered not telling you, but then, I didn't want to start dinner under false pretenses."

She laughed, in spite of herself. "Well, I do appreciate that." And she did. If anything, Mary was truly at ease now. "It seems as if I am doomed to be not at my best with you."

"Mary," he said, "Let me assure you that nothing in my impression of you suggests that you are ever anything except at your best."

He was flirting, she knew, but there was a sincerity behind his words that made Mary feel good.

"You're good at giving compliments," she said, which made him smile a bit bashfully. "And I was obviously right this morning because you do clean up nicely."

They held each other's gaze for a moment then went back to their menus.

Looking over at him out of the corner of her eye, Mary realized that part of what had discombobulated her so much coming into the restaurant was the fact that this was her first ever first date with a man she'd already slept with. And yes, she did think it was a date. Why else would he have asked her to dinner? Matthew didn't strike her as someone who played those are-we-or-aren't-we games.

Mary was being honest with him when she had told him this morning that she had never slept with anyone she had just met. The act itself hadn't freaked her out. The decision had been rash and out of character for her, sure, but she didn't regret making it. She had enjoyed herself—boy, had she—and this morning, when she believed that their parting was going to be the last of it, she was actually looking forward to having a pleasant memory.

Unfortunately for Mary and her best laid plans, the memory was a little too vivid, and all day she couldn't stop herself from thinking about him. And once she started thinking about his invitation as a first date, she tried to fit the situation into one of the boxes she compartmentalized her life into. Only, there was no box for first date with previous sex partner. Neither was there a box for first date with someone who'd seen her after one Evelyn Napier had made her look like a fool and made her feel even worse. All those rules about being coy went out the window. What is the point of being coy when he's seen you at your most vulnerable. _When he's seen you naked._

But sitting here now, she didn't feel discombobulated. For all the ways Matthew put Mary on edge, there were so many more in which he set her at ease. She didn't know what was going to happen, and for once in her life it was a confortable feeling. She would spend time with Matthew, if that's what he wanted too, until he was gone, and then let fate decide. If it turned out that all he was going to be was a memory, she might as well make it a longer and better one.

She didn't know how long she had been musing to herself like this when she caught his eyes on her. Before she had a chance to excuse herself, he spoke first.

"So we've established that rosé is out of the question. What would you like to drink?"

"A mean red."

"Mean?"

"Sure."

He had a questioning, but not unkind expression on his face. "What exactly is a mean red?"

"Something that will get my attention. People usually say 'a nice red,' but isn't 'nice' the word we use when we're talking about something that's easily overlooked?"

"I certainly hope that's not how you look at men."

"Oh?"

"If I'm supposed to be mean to you in order for your to find me interesting, then I'm afraid we're not going to have a successful courtship."

She raised her eyebrows at him playfully. "This is a courtship?"

"Isn't it?" he challenged back.

She held his gaze for a moment then laughed. "It is. I apologize for that, actually. Believe it or not I am determined not to be coy with you."

"Not that this is a complaint, but why not?"

"Well, I was quite direct last night, wasn't I, and that took us in a positive direction."

He smiled widely. "Mean red it is."

Mary couldn't help but smile back. It was easy to like him. That was disconcerting in its own way. In her entire life, nobody had ever told her that it could be easy.

Once they had ordered their wine—a robust Spanish tempranillo—and ordered their dinner, Mary and Matthew fell into an easy conversation about Mary's upbringing at Downton, Matthew's in Manchester, Matthew's days at Cambridge and Mary's at Oxford, their jobs and their families. Matthew's background seemed to Mary to be ever so slightly less worldly, less distinguished and less privileged than most of the men who populated her social circle, the one so carefully built around her and her sisters by their parents. And yet so much greater was he as a man. She could see that truth so clearly as she could see him sitting in front of her.

For whatever reason, in that moment, she thought of Sybil, so obviously unhappy for so long trying to will herself into loving one of these men and making herself miserable for it. Mary suddenly wished she had fought harder for her sister against her parents' well-meaning but misguided meddling. Wasn't Mary, with her lofty expectations, what others saw as high self-regard, merely shielding herself from the same romantic fate that Sybil had resigned herself to for too long? Who was Larry Grey to Matthew Crawley or even to Matthew's friend, someone Mary had never met but who she would speak for now merely on the knowledge that Matthew held him in high regard?

She remembered the happiness she heard in Sybil's voice last night and ventured a question about it to Matthew.

"How do you think Sybil and your friend are getting on? I know I mentioned it last night, but she seemed to like him very much, and Sybil's not one to be so effusive about strangers."

"She called me this afternoon, actually?"

This surprised Mary. "Was she all right?"

"I think so," Matthew said, though his face had something of a confused air. "I wasn't exactly clear on what happened, but she called to ask if anything had been troubling him, which I'm afraid to say in Tom's case is a bit of loaded question. He had a rough go of it just after university, when his novel was published. I'm not sure whether he talked about it with Sybil, since he usually doesn't like talking about it with anyone, but she sounded very concerned. In any case, she seemed to have figured things out by the end of the phone call, though I'm not sure what I said that would have helped."

"He's written a novel, has he? Sybil's quite the romantic when it comes to writing and literature, so I'm sure she likes that about him. What's the name of his book?"

"The Radical Chauffer."

"You're kidding!" Matthew could have said The Bible and Mary would not have been more shocked.

"Do you know it? Few people outside of our friends and family have heard of it."

"Know it? Sybil never stops talking about it. It's her favorite book," Mary responded. Still in a little bit of shock, it occurred to her that the joke she had made about Sybil moving to Dublin might have been prophetic. She also felt the urge to call Sybil and say what nobody had told her, "I've just discovered this, darling, and I thought you should know. Apparently, liking someone doesn't have to hard. In fact, it should be easy."

This knowledge about Sybil delighted Matthew, and it made Mary happy to have been the one to deliver it. From there, the conversation veered to best friends and sisters and family and coincidences and fate and, even though it was just a first date, how it is that people fall in love, for surely, they agreed, that was happening in his flat a sea away, to the most impulsive and passionate people each of them knew. Neither Matthew nor Mary would have claimed to be in love just then, not yet, but both reveled in the warm feeling of possibility.


	11. Chapter 11

 

**Matthew**

Matthew had a lot of questions about what would happen at the end of the night. Would they be going back to his place? Even though it was actually more her place than his. If so, would there be kissing? Would there be more? If not, should he see her to her parents' house? What did she expect? What did she _want_?

The questions popped up in his mind the moment he had seen her walk into the restaurant the first time and run back out. The indecision might have irked her for making her seem nervous or anything other than supremely self-possessed. Matthew found it adorable. But once she finally strode in and made it to the table, there the questions were, nagging at him all at once. Through the first bottle of wine, then appetizers, then dinner, then another bottle of wine, he'd managed to keep them at bay. Their conversation so lovely, so lively, so comfortable, calming his nerves and dispelling any worries he might have had about how the night would go. But then dessert came and the end of the night was imminent, and however much he wanted it not to end, there were the questions again about where it would all go from here.

_Where could it go?_ He lived in Dublin. He wanted to move to London, sure, but that wasn't where she lived. Could he live in the north of England? And wasn't he getting ahead of himself anyway? He wasn't ready to make any life decisions based on Miss Mary Crawley. But he liked her. He would admit at least that. He liked her very much.

So he had questions. He expected awkwardness. And yet, in spite of those truths, he wasn't all that surprised when, just after the server picked up their dessert plates, Mary did away with it all, announcing that, yes, she would go back to Sybil's with him after dinner, but, no, she would not be sleeping with him.

"You're not disappointed, are you?" She asked archly and, he thought, somewhat playfully, after a moment.

"I'm not sure there is a gentlemanly way of answering that question," he replied. "Besides, it's rather _coy_ of you to ask isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," she said with a warm smile. "I guess I hope you're not disappointed because I'm not. I've had a wonderful evening, and I don't want there to be any unnecessary complications or awkwardness."

He liked hearing the sincerity in her voice. Whatever guards either of them had put up at the start of the evening were gone now. And he couldn't be disappointed—well, not too much, anyway—because he hadn't allowed himself to presume how the night might end, even if he couldn't stop himself from hoping.

"I am in full support," he finally said, "of anything that eliminates awkwardness." He laughed at the ridiculousness of what he'd just said, and she joined him.

_Maybe life in Yorkshire wouldn't be so bad._

Dinner paid and coats collected, Matthew waited outside while she went to the loo. He checked his mobile for messages and found one text from Tom.

"Turns out house-swapping with Sybil was the best idea you've ever had. I'll owe you a pint when you get home. And possibly our first born."

Matthew laughed out loud and typed out a response, "OUR? Has it gone that well?"

Tom's reply was almost immediate: "BETTER!"

Matthew smiled and looked up. Seeing Mary making her way through the restaurant to the door, he quickly typed, "I'm not there yet, but not terribly far behind."

"? ? ?"

His friend would have to wait for a response. Matthew was still searching for the answer himself.

**XXX**

Back at Sybil's flat, Matthew put away his and Mary's coats, and she set about making tea for them both. He excused himself to go to the loo, tossing his wallet on the coffee table on his way. From there, he went to the guest room to hang up his suit jacket, leaving his waistcoat on and rolling up his sleeves. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment and laughed, thinking of earlier tonight when he was getting dressed and wondering if Mary, if she showed up, would think a three-piece suit too much. He did want to impress her, but he also didn't want to make it so obvious. Her tastes, like her demeanor, seemed so particular, so refined. He wondered if anyone ever truly measured up, if keeping such exact standards was ever exhausting for her. He thought of her and her silver tea tray at 3 in the morning. He would have questioned her need or desire for such decorum, if he hadn't found it all so terribly endearing.

_I guess this is what people mean when they say you like who you like_ , he thought with a smile.

"I can only assume the presentation will be as good as last night's," he joked as he walked back into the living room, hearing the kettle start to whistle.

But Mary wasn't in the kitchen. She was kneeling by the coffee table.

"Mary?"

He looked down at what she was looking at and it was his wallet, which was open on the floor. Her expression was one that he couldn't quite describe but seemed to be hovering somewhere near disappointment.

Matthew didn't have to step any closer to know what she had seen, and immediately he knew that the conversation, which all night had been light and comforting and exciting, had to take a turn. The burden that he had been trying to avoid in coming to London was suddenly here, screaming to be acknowledged.

The kettle continued to whistle. Mary hadn't taken her eyes off the wallet, _the picture_ , but she didn't really seemed focused on it either.

"Mary, listen."

She stood up quickly and started talking nervously and wringing her hands. "No, I should apologize. I was getting my handbag and ran into the coffee table, and it fell open. I wasn't trying to snoop."

He took a step toward her, and she immediately turned around to head to the kitchen.

"The kettle must be ready, don't you think? I'll check it. Although I should probably be going. I have—"

"Mary, look."

"I need to get back to Downton and—"

"Mary—"

"No, you don't need to explain anything—"

"Mary—"

"This is stupid. I'm stupid. _Of course_ , you have a girlfriend. In what universe would a guy like you not have a girlfriend—"

"Mary, STOP!"

She had her hands on the counter now and took a breath to steady herself before finally turning off the screaming kettle. Matthew slowly approached her and put his hand on her shoulder, but she stepped away quickly.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Mary, please let me explain. It's not what you think."

He tried to step closer to her again until he was standing right next to her. Tears were welling in her eyes.

"Just, tell me . . . if you're married . . ."

"I'm not married."

She released a long breath but didn't turn to face him. "So she's your girlfriend?"

"She was."

"Why would you still have a picture of you with your ex in your wallet?"

"It's complicated—"

"Matthew, I came tonight because I thought I liked you—I do like you—and I told you I wasn't going to be coy. Please don't you be coy with me. I don't deserve it."

"You don't, and I don't have any intention of doing that. Please just sit down, and I can tell you who she is."

She finally looked at him, and the sadness he saw in her face hit him in the gut. She didn't need words for him to understand what she was saying to him, _Please don't be like the rest of them._

"Trust me, please."

"Why should I trust you when I barely know you?"

"This conversation will help you know me."

Mary moved to sit down at the kitchen table, while Matthew went back into the living room for his wallet. He came back into the kitchen, sat down next to her, took the old photo out and put his wallet back in his pocket. Holding the picture in his hands now, he realized that for however long he'd kept it there, in a spot he'd see every time he'd open his bill fold, he hadn't looked at it, _really_ looked at it, in years.

It was taken at a birthday party a friend of Lavinia's had planned for her. They'd only been dating about two months, so the newness of it all was still fresh and very visible in their expressions. She was wearing a red dress and a party hat. Both her arms were wrapped around his neck, her face pressed against his with a smile that spoke volumes of the love she clearly already felt. He was in black trousers and a blue button-down shirt. One arm was wrapped around her; his other hand was holding a pint. Whether or not there had been love in his heart at that point he couldn't remember, but he was happy and the happiness was all over his face. If his body language gave anything away regarding the level of his attraction, compared with hers, few would have noticed.

After a few minutes, Matthew looked over at Mary again. She was so beautiful and so eager to be in control of herself and everything around her. She had told him tonight of the pressure that she sometimes felt as her father's eldest to work for the family firm, to marry well, to be everything that everyone expected of the daughter of an Earl. He hated to see himself so diminished in her eyes, even if under a false impression, but he also couldn't help but feel pleased on some level that he had affected her this much already.

He reached over to her hands, which she had folded on the table in front of her, and his touch seemed to startle her. She looked up at him. He looked as deeply into her as he could and said, "I'm not going to hurt you, Mary. I promise."

She smiled tightly at him. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Lavinia Swire. She was my girlfriend for a few years, and then about a year and a half ago she was diagnosed with cancer. About a month after that she died."

"Oh, Matthew!" Mary turned to him abruptly and squeezed his hands with both of hers. "I'm so sorry. I'm horrible for thinking the worst. I just—"

"No, it's OK—"

"It isn't. It's selfish, which is what I am, I'm afraid."

"Mary—"

"I am. And, all the more now for hijacking your explanation."

At this they both laughed quietly, breaking the tension that had settled over them since he'd come back into the living room.

He turned to her and cupped her face with his hand, wiping a tear on her cheek with his thumb.

"It's ok."

"How awful am I that you've lost someone and are now the one comforting me," she said, talking both of his hands in hers again. "I'm so very sorry, Matthew. For your loss, I mean. What a terrible thing to have gone through. And for her, so young. You can talk about it—if you want to that is."

"There's not really much to say. It was very sudden. When they discovered it, it was already at stage 4, so there really wasn't much that could be done. It was ovarian cancer, but it had already moved to her lymph nodes and her liver."

"Were you at least able to say goodbye properly, in those last weeks?"

Matthew paused and took a deep breath. "No, not really. But that was my own fault. Given how advanced it was, her doctors weren't sure about what to do, other than make her comfortable. They started her on chemo to see if they could slow the growth and she responded at first, so they decided to operate on her. The thought was that with surgery on her liver, they could take out the cancer there and maybe the chemo and medication would take care of the rest. it was a long shot, but . . ."

"But what?"

"She never woke up. They told her, told us, that it was a risk. She was aware of what might happen, so she tried to prepare herself, prepare _me_ , but I couldn't. I couldn't talk to her as if she were going to die. I was supposed be the supportive boyfriend, always positive. I wouldn't let her talk as if she wouldn't make it, as if she wouldn't beat it. So when she went in, I told her, 'Everything is going to be fine.' But then she didn't wake up."

And before Matthew knew it, before he could stop it, her death, his cowardice, all of it sucker punched him all over again. He pulled away from Mary abruptly and stood up to pace around the kitchen, as if he could somehow keep the wave of guilt from getting out. He'd processed it all before, but he hadn't ever spoken of it aloud. Not like this.

"You don't have to keep talking," Mary said, still sitting at the table.

But now he couldn't stop himself, and the thing that he had kept inside of him for the last 15 months, the thing that no one knew, not even Tom, his closest friend in the world, tumbled out of his mouth.

"I was going to break up with her."

"What?"

He stopped pacing and let out a long breath. Leaning against the counter now, looking at his feet, he continued, "The day she told me about the cancer. I was planning on breaking up with her. I'd been planning on it for a week, but we were both busy and when she came into my flat, I thought, 'OK, this is it.' And then she said, 'I have cancer.'"

He lifted his eyes to Mary again, a little bit afraid of what he would see in her face, but felt immense relief when he saw only understanding.

"I didn't want to say goodbye to her because I kept telling myself, 'If she gets better, if she beats this, then we can move on.' Incredibly selfish don't you think?"

"Incredibly human, I would say."

"It's funny," he said with a sad sigh. "In the last year, people have been treating me like I'm in mourning, like I lost my wife. They think that I'm mourning the life that I missed out on with her. And I want to scream at everyone, 'We weren't going to get married!' I don't know what kind of life she would have had, but I hope it would have been better than being with a prick that didn't really love her."

"But you did love her. You stood by her, Matthew. You were trying to keep her alive. There is love in that!"

He laughed a joyless laugh in response.

"You think that what you did is what anyone would have done, but it isn't. The world is a sad place full of people who would have cut and run, but you didn't." At this, Mary walked over to where he was and leaned on the counter next to him. "You feel guilt that I'm afraid I'm not equipped to unburden you of, but I can say that from where I'm standing, she died knowing that you wanted her very much alive. It may not seem like much, but it's a kind of love that most of us only ever hope to have."

He turned to her with a smile, still sad but brighter than it had been just a few minutes ago. "Thank you." The burden was not entirely gone, but it was lighter. It hadn't felt good to Matthew to say that particular truth aloud, but he was glad to have said it. And to have said it to Mary.

After a long, quiet moment between them, she asked, "So how about that tea?" She smiled at him warmly and gestured toward the sofa. "I'll bring it out."

A few minutes later, he stood up from the sofa as she carried over the tray, perfectly arranged as before. She set it down and straightened back up, standing very close to him. She put her hands on his chest and slowly both moved toward each other, touching foreheads together for a moment before going in for a long, slow kiss. There was no lust, no urgency, as there had been the night before. Only patience and support and caring. After a few minutes, they broke the kiss and he pulled her even closer to him into a hug.

A couple of hours later, he would step outside with Mary, hail a taxi for her and stand there watching until it was out of sight, still thinking about the kiss. It was the only one they shared that night, and in the days, months and years to come, despite what had transpired between them before, both of them would refer to it as their first kiss.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sybil**

It had been a whirlwind couple of weeks, leading up to Christmas Day, but easily the best in Sybil's life. Her second night in Dublin, after emerging from their love cocoon following Sybil's revelation and after having finished off what Tom called their "Magic Eight Pack," the newly formed couple went out to a very late dinner and headed over to Matthew's flat to pick up Sybil's things. Matthew himself wouldn't be coming back to Dublin until after Christmas, having gone straight to Manchester to be with his mother after his week in London. Even so, Tom and Sybil didn't feel a need to bother with the pretense that Sybil would be sleeping anywhere other than Tom's bed during the remainder of her time in Ireland.

As her holiday, originally just one week, stretched to two, they continued to explore the city and each other. They took several long drives so Sybil could see some of the Irish country side. They hadn't talked much more about the future, but in Sybil's mind the decision was made. And the longer she was in Ireland, the more of it she saw, the more convinced she was that this was where she wanted to be. She knew that Tom was not entirely comfortable with the idea of her transplanting her whole life for him, but Sybil didn't see it that way. In her mind, the move was entirely selfish on her part. Her life in London was nice enough, but the idea of picking up and starting somewhere new suddenly thrilled her, and if it brought her closer to the man she loved, all the better. Whether or not they would be moving in together, though, was still an open question.

The only low point had been the phone call to her mother to explain that she'd not be coming home for Christmas. Cora was alarmed that Sybil was spending the holidays with people she hardly knew and worried that the end of her long relationship with Larry Grey had pushed her to rebound into the arms of a stranger. Sybil reminded her mother of who had pushed her into Larry's arms in the first place. There was yelling, which Sybil wasn't terribly proud of, but the conversation eventually came back to a good place, Sybil's happiness becoming more and more apparent the longer they talked. Things ended in what Sybil called a truce. She would join the family at the annual Downton New Year's Ball with her new beau, Sybil told her mother, and Cora would see for herself then what a wonderful person he was. Listening to that part of the conversation, Tom would have preferred that Sybil not build up expectations too much and told her as much at the end of the call, but Sybil knew her mother. She didn't think it wouldn't take long for Cora to take a shining to him, especially when he made her wayward baby girl so happy. Tom having also heard the Larry portion of the call, Sybil was forced to come clean about what exactly had brought her to Dublin. She'd expected some anger or disappointment, all she got was Tom shrugging his shoulders and pointing out to her that without Larry being an ass they might have never met.

So it was that they, as full of love for one another as two people could be, came to Christmas Day. Christmas with the Bransons.

Knocking on the door to his childhood home, Tom confessed to Sybil that he had never showed up to Christmas dinner with a girl. She was actually glad that he hadn't shared that detail with her ahead of time or her nerves, which were already on the edge on the drive over, might have been pushed over the cliff and might have forced her to insist that he turn around.

_Too late for that now._

He kept telling her to relax, clearly amused at how nervous she was. Sybil couldn't help it, though. This was a first for her too. Given that Larry's family had been in her life as long as she could remember, she'd never been _introduced_ before. Plus there was the timing of the thing.

_Hello, Mrs. Branson, I'm Sybil. I'm in love with your son, whom I officially met 10 days ago. Oh, and I'm moving here._

They had both questioned the absurdity, the weirdness, of how they'd come together individually, but once they _had_ come together, it made sense. They knew it would be hard to explain, but they were in love. Surely, anyone who loved them would see that. Standing here now, though, on what felt like a precipice they were about to jump off of, she wasn't so sure.

_Will they accept us? Will they accept_ me _?_

Sybil panicked.

"Maybe we should come up with a story?" She said, unable to keep her worries from spilling out of her mouth any more.

"A story?"

"Something that doesn't sound as crazy as, 'We met a week ago, and now she's moving to Dublin.'"

Tom smiled, apparently still not concerned this would be an issue. _Of course, because we're with_ his _people first._

"You can read her your lovely letter to me," he suggested playfully.

"I'm serious, Tom."

"You think I'm not?"

She rolled her eyes.

"What story could we possibly make up that we could stick to? Besides, Matthew and your sister would know the truth. Honestly, for the last couple of years, Mam's been convinced I'm going to die a bachelor. She'll probably throw you a party just for being here."

Sybil didn't respond. She knew she was being silly, but this was the moment where they would let others in. Would their little world, not two weeks old, hold up?

Tom filled in her silence, vocalizing what was really bothering her. "Or is it something else you're worried about?"

"What do you mean?"

" _Your_ family?"

"Well, I do want to avoid fighting with them. I want them to like you."

"They will. And if they don't right away, they'll come around."

"I'm just trying to make things easier for us."

"You can't think it's better to lie! Don't disappoint me, Sybil, not now that we're here."

"That's a bit harsh!" At this Sybil turned around, arms crossed and pulled tight against her, trying to keep her anger at bay. She knew she was making too much of things, but her nerves had taken hold and wouldn't ease their grip. This wasn't how she'd wanted this day, of all days, to start. It was a fight they were bound to have, but did her courage have to fail her _here_ , at his mother's doorstep? She felt Tom come up behind her and wrap his arms around her shoulders, trying to put her at ease.

"Do you remember in the book, when they leave for Ireland, and on the boat they talk about whether or not they'd ever go back to Highclere?"

"Yes, so?"

"So, imagine if they had, and she had asked him to buy a set of tails to wear to dinner to, as you say, make things easier—the suffragist who stood up to her parents and married the chauffer, suddenly wanting him to conform so her family would have an easier time pretending he wasn't who he was." He turned her in his arms and held her face so she would look at him "Wouldn't that have been disappointing?"

She rolled her eyes and felt a pout forming, which made him smile. "I suppose," she said finally. "So what's your point?"

"This here. What we have. How it happened. It's ridiculous, but it's who we are. I don't want to have to hide it from anyone, and I don't want you to want to hide it." Tom lowered himself so they were seeing eye-to-eye and set his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout, making her laugh in spite of herself. "Everything is going to be fine."

She took a deep breath, "Are they going to like me?"

"They are going to love you because I love you."

She couldn't help but blush. He straightened up and pulled her closer.

"You know what that was, Sybil?"

"What?"

"Our first fight."

"It was, wasn't it," she said, now fully smiling again. "I think we should make up right now."

And he went in for a deep kiss, which of course had to be when his mother, clearly harried form cooking, finally go to the door. _Bloody perfect._

"Still in the honeymoon phase, are we?" Sybil's nerves, put at ease by him less than a minute ago, suddenly started bubbling up again.

He disentangled himself from Sybil and moved to hug the small, stout woman. "Hi, Mam."

"Hello, my dear, still needing a hair cut, I see." She went to muss his hair, as if he were still a boy, but he easily ducked her reach.

"You going to start with that already. I haven't even walked in the door. Aren't you excited I've brought a girl for you?"

"For _me_? I've got four and one to spare. Why don't you stop with the joking and introduce us properly." She turned to Sybil with a bright, expectant look on her face.

Tom pulled Sybil toward him again and put his arm around her. "Mam, this is my girlfriend, Sybil Crawley. Sybil, this is Claire Branson."

_Here we go_ , she thought. "It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Branson."

Claire stepped forward and took Sybil's hands in hers, pulling them out to the sides as if to better size her up. "Well, aren't you the most beautiful thing."

Sybil blushed and looked bashfully between Claire and Tom.

Claire squeezed her hands before letting go, saying, "Oh dear, it's no good to be bashful with this lot. Come in, come in."

They stepped through, and almost immediately Sybil could hear the din of kids running around the house and grown-ups talking over each other. This was it. This was going to be her family.

**XXX**

A couple of hours in, stepping out of the loo upstairs, Sybil discovered her favorite room in the Bransons' house. It wasn't a room exactly. Claire Branson loved photographs, and over the course of her life, she'd hung what seemed like hundreds in frames big and small in the long hallway upstairs. Sybil had spent the last 20 minutes slowly making her way through them all, starting at the far end of the hallway, next to the master bedroom, where Colin and Claire Branson's wedding portrait hung. From there, the pictures documenting the lives of the couple and their growing family, progressed chronologically down the hallway toward the top of the staircase through all manner of family milestones involving all of their six children: Kieran, Sarah, Lily, Caitlin, Maura and, of course, Thomas or "Tommy" as they all, to his clear annoyance, still called him.

Sybil was nearing the end of the hall, looking at a photo of Tom as boy with his father, when she heard Mrs. Branson come up behind her.

"There you are, my dear," she said. "I was afraid you'd gotten lost."

"Oh no," Sybil replied, somewhat embarrassed, "I was just enjoying your collection of family pictures. They're all wonderful, although I think this is my favorite." She pointed to the one she had just been looking at. A young Tom, maybe 6 or 7 years old, was standing in front of his father, who had his large hands on his son's small shoulders. They were standing next to an antique car, and while Colin Branson was looking straight at the camera, Tom had his head turned to the side and was looking up at his father with a broad smile.

"My Colin. He was a handful as a husband, but a wonderful father," Claire said with a sigh. "And that boy never knew a hero greater than his Da."

"I'm sure his death was extremely difficult for all of you," Sybil said quietly. "I'm very sorry."

"Those were some sad days, hardest of all on Tommy, poor boy." Claire gave Sybil and warm smile. They both looked back at the picture for a moment, then she turned back to Sybil. "Well, no use loitering about with this many mouths to feed."

"Can I help with something?"

"What do you think I came after you for?"

They both laughed and headed back downstairs to the kitchen, where Claire was putting together what had the look of a massive dinner. And Claire's "many mouths to feed" was right. There would be 14 of them all together at Christmas dinner. Tom had gone through the whole family tree on the drive over from his flat. Kieran, the oldest, would be there with his wife and three teenage boys; Sarah lived in Galway with her husband, son and daughter but didn't make the trip this year; Lily, divorced, would be there with her two daughters; Caitlin, who had married an American and had two boys, would be in Boston to spend the holiday with his family; and Maura would be along late, after her nursing shift, with her husband of two years. No kids for them so far. Sybil didn't know how she would ever keep all of them straight.

As she walked in, Sybil saw that the kitchen and dining room were a hotbed of activity with Lily rolling out pie crusts on one counter and her daughters, Aisling, who was 6, and Kelly, who was 9, helping Liz, Kieran's wife, chop vegetables across the room. Claire pointed Sybil to a potato peeler and a stack of potatoes next to Liz and the girls and returned to fussing over her roast in the center island.

All the boys, Tom included, had gone to the park to play football. As they were leaving, Sybil quietly pointed out to Tom what she saw as an unfair distribution of labor, but he quickly noted that when they got back, the boys would be in charge of setting the table and then cleaning up after dinner.

"You'll see at the end of the night, with the mess we make, that the girls actually get off easy," he said with a wink. He had offered to stay back with her, of course, but she had insisted he go. She didn't want to be babysat all day.

Sybil had just started peeling when Aisling slid off from her perch on a stool and walked over to inspect what she was doing.

"Would you like some company?"

Sybil smiled and replied, "Sure, but should you check with you mum, to make sure it's OK?"

The little girl rolled her eyes, "Oh, all right. Mam, can I talk to Uncle Tommy's girl or do I have to keep chopping?"

Lily looked over her shoulder to them, smiling. "You can take a break, I suppose, but only if you're not bothering Ms. Crawley."

"Oh, it's no bother," Sybil said quickly.

"So you _are_ Uncle Tommy's girlfriend, aren't you?"

Sybil blushed, "I am."

"And are you going to get married?"

"Aisling!" The girl's mother, grandmother and aunt all cried out in unison.

"Well, I'm only asking because he's never had a girl here for Christmas with us before, and he said it was because Christmas is only for family, so if she's here, he obviously means to make her family." Sybil wanted to laugh at Aisling's obvious exasperation. Besides, the young girl was being perfectly logical. Sybil could admit to herself that her own mind had come to a similar conclusion.

Before Sybil could think of how to respond, Lily spoke up, "What Uncle Tommy and Miss Crawley mean to do is none of your business."

Turning back to Sybil, Aisling said, very matter-of-factly, hands on hips as if to stress her point, "Well, _I_ think you should marry him because he's nice and he's fun."

"I do agree with that," Sybil said, smiling.

Aisling continued, "He took me and Kelly to the fall fair at school last month, and even Da didn't want to go to that."

"That was very nice of him." Sybil looked down at Aisling and her persistently expectant expression. She crouched down so they were on the same level and said quietly, as if sharing a secret, "I'll tell you what, I'll give you an answer if you promise to keep it a secret." This pleased Aisling very much, and both her mother and grandmother rolled their eyes at her excitement.

Sybil put her hand over her mouth, moved to Aisling's ear and whispered, "I do want to marry him."

Aisling immediately started to jump up and down, obviously thrilled with the knowledge. Seeing her mother and grandmother's eyes on her, though, she put on a faux serious expression, lifted her nose into the air and sauntered back to her post next to her sister. She turned back to Sybil and pointed to Kelly as if asking permission to share her news. Sybil nodded, and Aisling immediately whispered Sybil's confession to her sister. Of course, unlike Sybil's, Aisling's whisper was such that the rest of the room heard it along with its intended receiver, causing all the grown up women in the room to laugh and Sybil's cheeks to redden just a little.

Sybil caught Claire's eyes on her and felt comfort in seeing her warm smile. Feeling rather freed by having basically just announced her intentions to the women in Tom's family, she turned back to her potatoes with a smile. Her back was turned to the rest of the room, so Sybil missed when Claire turned to Lily, smiled even wider than she had for Sybil and lifted up her hands to show that her fingers were crossed.

**XXX**

With dinner finally ready, the Branson clan crammed themselves into the dining room and sat down to dinner about 7 p.m.

Kieran stood up and clinked his glass with his fork to get every one's attention.

"Let's take a moment, as always, for Da," he said, raising his glass. "To Colin Branson."

The motley crew, Sybil a proud member for the last nine hours, raised their glasses and said, "Hear, hear!"

"And we acknowledge all others who couldn't be with us tonight as well those who could but wanted to spare themselves from mam's cooking." The last garnered snickers from his boys.

But Claire, not backing down an inch, quickly spoke up, "You're the one who keeps coming back every year, aren't you?"

With a smile, satisfied that he'd ribbed his mother enough, he turned to the kids' table in the corner, "Now Aisling's still the youngest, so she gets to lead the blessing."

Aisling, very excited about her duty, jumped out of her chair as Kieran sat back down. She cleared her throat dramatically and recited:

"May you always walk in sunshine.

May you never want for more."

Here she stopped and lifted her arms so the rest would join in for the last line.

"May Irish angels rest their wings right beside your door. Cheers!"

Sybil's cheeks warmed and she felt tears pooling in her eyes, feeling full of love, not just for Tom, but for everything in his orbit, all of the things, all of the people, he would be giving her.

Sybil felt Tom's hand find hers under the table, and she looked over at him. He leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Moving his lips to her ears, he whispered, "Merry Christmas."

She waited for him to pull back so she could look him in the eyes when she responded.

"Merry Christmas."


	13. Chapter 13

 

**Tom**

Watching Sybil explore his kitchen in search of ingredients for a farewell meal she planned on cooking for them that night—she was leaving the next day—Tom considered what it would be like to see her like this, wake up to her like this, every day. He was wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms and sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table. A news magazine that he'd long since stopped reading lay across his lap. Sybil was wearing a barely there camisole and a pair of old boxer shorts of his she'd found at the bottom of his wardrobe. They were barely clinging to her small hips. She looked, if Tom had to describe it in a word, _delicious_. Every so often, she would look over her shoulder at him, aware of her effect on him, but she was "too busy," she'd said, "to do anything about it right now."

She'd brought up moving to Dublin again last night, on the drive home from Christmas dinner. He figured that she would, given how well the day had gone. Despite her initial concerns, Sybil had received a warm welcome from the Bransons, and both she and Tom had enjoyed themselves thoroughly. His family had loved her so much, in fact, that Tom believed that if he'd announced halfway through dinner that their intention was to get married, his mother would have gotten up from the table right then, pulled them into her car and driven them to her church so Father Flanagan could do the job that very night. The reaction didn't much surprise Tom, though. His had never been the family he was worried about.

The truth was that Christmas was when he'd miss his father the most. And his mother knew it. The first two after his death, Claire and Kieran had had to drag Tom out of his flat to join the family. Both times, he'd volunteered to watch Aisling, a newborn during the first and chubby toddler during the second, in order to avoid questions as to his book, his writing, and why he was letting it all go to waste. (Given the dark hours he had spent watching the little girl, none the wiser as to what she had lost, it felt appropriate to Tom that the now precocious 6 year old would take such a shining to Sybil, barely leaving her side after dinner, even when it was time to exchange gifts.) Christmases had gotten easier since, but he'd hardly been happy. Knowing, then, how his family would receive his newly found happiness, he wasn't exaggerating when he'd told Sybil that they would throw a party for her on sight. The change in him—after only a couple of weeks in her company and at what was usually a tough time of year for him—was readily apparent. He knew his family would see it and be deeply grateful to her. So he laughed at her obvious nerves. No, the Bransons were definitely not going to be the problem.

Not that he could blame Sybil's parents for the third degree he knew would come. On paper, things on her end were far more difficult to accept. It wasn't just that the Crawleys were very rich aristocrats—though it didn't help. Tom could imagine the men of wealth and position that her parents had pushed their daughters toward, and he most certainly was not one of them.

It was her age. At 24, she was barely more than a year out of university and no less than six years his junior. And it was the four-year relationship she had just extricated herself from. Who wouldn't believe that she was just a young, naive girl vulnerable to whatever lothario wanted to charm his way into her knickers? She would insist, of course, that such a description of her situation presumed she wasn't smart enough or strong enough to fight off unwanted advances or to discern the sincerity of his feelings. She had told Tom, when telling him about the Larry character, that she did not feel heartbroken because her heart had never truly been Larry's to break. He believed her, but he knew her parents would not be so easy to convince.

The Bransons were not better people, then, for so easily accepting their relationship. It was just a matter of circumstance. Sybil was a kind of savior for Tom, and his family welcomed her into their lives as such. Tom, to the Crawleys, would be the man who was taking their baby, fresh from heartbreak, away to another country.

_Hello, Lord and Lady Grantham. My name is Tom Branson. I've no fortune or title, but I'm in love with your daughter and I'm taking her to Ireland._

Yes, he could see why they might object, which was why her talk of moving, before he had met the Crawley family and had a chance to make a different, truer impression, continued to make him a little nervous.

In bringing it up last night, Sybil cited The Radical Chauffer's heroine and how she had willingly uprooted her life, all she had known, taking a chance on the love she felt for her family's Irish servant. Why would Tom, of all people, be so worried about Sybil doing the same? He conceded the point. In truth, the very many times the book had come up in conversation since she'd shown up at his flat announcing her love for it and for him was rather amusing to Tom. It was a bit like a common language between them, one that he had made up and that she had studied for years. When one of them wanted to make a point, he or she would simply refer to it, and the other would understand immediately. It gave him a bit of understanding as to how she could believe so easily that her heart recognized his words and clung to them, without knowing it was doing so, on their first night together. That connection between them seemed so obvious now that it was a wonder to him that it took a whole day to discover it existed.

Breaking him out of his thoughts was the sight of Sybil walking toward him, tossing the magazine away then sitting astride him on his lap.

Tom smiled widely and said, "So you've changed your mind about what you want to do this morning, thank God." He immediately started running his hands up and down her legs, as if it weren't already clear what it was _he_ wanted to do.

Sybil put her hands on his shoulders, so as to keep him at bay. "No, I still want to cook for us, but it seems that there is nothing edible at present in your kitchen."

"You've been here for two weeks and you're just now noticing?"

"Well, for most of the time we're here, you have me otherwise occupied," she said with a grin, which he returned while determinedly trying to push his hands under her camisole.

"And wouldn't you rather be doing that? It's our last day, after all."

"No, it isn't."

"No?"

"No. I'm coming back, remember, and we'll have plenty of days and nights for _that_ , which is why I want to make a nice dinner _this_ night, and apparently I need to run out and get food in order to do that."

"And I can't come?"

"Not if dinner is going to be a surprise."

Tom dropped his hands to his sides with an overly dramatic sigh, as if giving up his pursuit. "Fine, but may I suggest a compromise?"

Sybil crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "And what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you need to wash up before you go out. I could help you do that to save you time." Just like that, his hands were working his way up her torso again.

"All right, but let me register my skepticism now."

"Why skepticism?"

She laughed and stood up, pulling him along, "No shower involving you is going to get me out the door any faster."

**XXX**

About an hour later, both showered and satisfied, Sybil was finally off, and he was alone in the apartment again, dressed with nowhere to go.

Standing in the living room, he looked around for something to do. He saw his computer bag across the room, went over to it and opened up his laptop on the coffee table. He had two e-mail messages. The first from Matthew confirming what time his plane would land the next day. Tom smiled and thought of Matthew's texts the second night Sybil had been in Dublin. His last message in the exchange had been a cryptic reference to his being with someone, or at least being hopeful about someone. Tom questioned it, but never received a response and didn't want to press his friend, knowing how reticent Matthew could be about talking about such things—particularly if he _really_ liked the person in question. Matthew hadn't been involved with anyone since Lavinia. It didn't seem to Tom that Matthew was still grieving for her, but he hadn't shown interest in anyone yet either. If Matthew had met someone in London, and for Matthew's sake Tom hoped that was the case, Tom was determined to give his friend room to talk about it on his own time.

Tom replied:

_I'll be there to pick you up and drive us directly to the pub so you can hear me drunkenly wax poetic about Sybil and so you can tell me about your mystery woman. -TB_

The second message was from his sister Maura. The subject line: Everyone approves! It made Tom smile. Maura had arrived just before dinner had been served, and the family having gone directly from that to opening presents, Maura hadn't gotten a chance to interact with Sybil much. Lily and his mother would have filled her in on what she had missed after he and Sybil had gone home, and Maura was apparently eager to put in her two cents about how wonderful it was that he hadn't been his usual dour self this holiday.

_Tommy,_

_Sorry you weren't at dinner last night. But weird thing—there was this guy who looked just like you! I would have thought he was you except he was all smiling and happy and with a girl!_

_;) Kidding, obvs._

_I wish we could have talked more, but the clinic was crazy and I couldn't get away earlier. Sybil is lovely. Mam said that it's a very new thing, but very serious (wishful thinking on her part?). If your smiles last night were a sign of how happy she makes you, I hope she is around for a long time. Aisling was half asleep when Lil, her and Kelly left, but still managed to wake up long enough to tell me that she predicts wedding bells in your future. That child._

_Let's have dinner soon, please! I want to hear more about Sybil. By the way, Mam is still asking when we're going to clear out the attic. Jim and I are taking the extra furniture up there, but the trunks with Da's old papers and things are still there for you, if you think you'll still want them. Let me know._

_Cheers, Mo_

Tom typed out a reply.

_Yes on dinner, but before the 29th because I'll be going to England then to meet Sybil's family. (So, yes, serious.) Tell mam I'll be by for the trunks before I leave. -TB_

The trunks. He'd forgotten about the trunks.

Colin Branson was a pack rat. To his wife's supreme annoyance, he'd kept most of his notebooks and papers from when he was a schoolboy, his old journals and all his letters. Basically, if it possessed a modicum of sentimental value for Colin, it wasn't going to be thrown away. In his life, she'd allowed him the attic to keep several trunk fulls of what she very unsentimentally referred to as junk. In the weeks after his death, though, as she began to clear his things out of their bedroom, she couldn't bear to go through the attic and asked her children to do so. They were all too broken up, but when Kieran suggested simply throwing them away—"Does anyone actually want to put themselves through the bother of sorting it all out?"—Tom spoke up. His mother, understanding the depth of his grief, told him he could do it on his own time. Apparently, though, after five years, even the devoted widow's patience was wearing thin.

In fact, Tom had forgotten all about them. Thinking of them now and of the exercise of excavating through the artifacts of his father's life, it occurred to him that his forgetting was a good sign. He was no longer just dwelling on the fact Colin Branson was gone, and though he knew it would be painful, Tom actually felt ready to unearth his father's treasures.

After sending his reply to Maura's message, he closed his laptop, put it back in its bag and laid back on the sofa with a sigh. A few minutes later, he stood up and ambled over to what he still grudgingly called his "writing room." It wasn't much of a room, really. It was small and sparse, furnished only with a single chair and a small table, atop which rested his typewriter, a gift from his father at age 15. ("Now work some magic, my boy," Colin had said, rubbing his hands together as if concocting some sort of master plan for his son.)

On each side of the typewriter there were two stacks of papers. On the left, the sheets were blank, and on the right, they were full of the drab product of his people watching.

_Descriptions looking for characters. Densely detailed shells of people with no soul._

Whenever he wondered why he still kept at it, he'd hear the voice of Mrs. McMullen, his piano teacher, telling him to "Practice! Practice! Practice!" Typing, _writing_ , wasn't the same as playing the piano, but the lesson, for whatever it was worth, however misguidedly applied, was ingrained.

_What else is there to do?_

Tom went to the kitchen for a tall glass of water, then came back into the room and sat down. He checked the ribbon, put in a fresh sheet of paper and started to type.

_She steps out onto the terminal, looking fresh, beautiful and in search of adventure. Our hero sees her across the room and_

_And what?_

_and he doesn't know what hit him?_

_Ugh._

Laughing at himself, Tom ripped the paper out of the typewriter and crumpled it up into a ball, tossing it into the waste bin at the other end of the room. Even on his best day, Tom doubted he could ever come up with words to describe Sybil or describe her effect on him. He put that idea aside, and after contemplating the typewriter for several minutes, Tom pulled another fresh sheet of paper off the clean stack, rolled it in and started again.

_Dear Da,_

_I apologize for taking this long to write. Figuring out what to do with myself after you were gone turned out to be quite hard. I don't know whether that makes me a weak man, but I'm certain it does not make me the man you would have wanted me to be. I have done nothing that would have made you proud since you left us, mostly because I have done nothing at all. For that, I must also apologize. You gave me a compass, but fool that I am, I never bothered to learn to read it assuming that you, my guide, would always be with me._

_I can't consider wasted the years I spent wondering what you would have wanted for me, but I recognize now that I can't let myself be caught up in that limbo forever. If I have disappointed you in the past, my only excuse is that you were too good of a father and too good of a friend, and having grown to depend on you as I did, I was ill prepared to stand your sudden departure or make meaning of it. Your legacy rests in my hands, and I will be a better steward of it in the future, like your other children have been._

_I doubt you're wondering what brought this change in me. You knew me so well you must already have guessed it's because of a girl. You told me once that I was a romantic, and I don't suppose there's any sense in me denying it now. I wish so much that you could have met her, but part of me understands that whatever force is in charge of the way things happen must have known that she couldn't come into my life any sooner, for this moment would be when I was most in need of saving. I'm wondering now if you had a hand in it. If so, I must thank you for once again giving me more than I deserve._

_I will continue to do my best at living life without your help. I hope with better success now than before._

_Always your faithful son,_

_Tom_

Tom stared at what he had written until he realized that there was noise coming from the kitchen. He got up and saw that Sybil was back and by the look of it had been for a while.

Hearing him, she turned from the spot on the counter where she'd been mixing something in a bowl.

"Hi," she said, smiling warmly.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said. He walked over and, hands in pockets, leaned on the counter, near to where she was.

"I didn't want to interrupt."

After a long moment, he said, looking at the floor, "You can ask me about it if you want to."

She looked over at him, "Ask you about what?"

"My writing."

For all the times the book had been a subject of conversation, the subject of what he had done since, what he had failed to do, had not yet been broached. Certainly not in the way he was offering it up for discussion now. Even when he'd shown her the writing room, she hadn't asked questions.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

He looked over at her, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Not yet." As the words came out of his mouth, he realized that a month ago, the answer to that same question would have been "no." He straightened up and pulled her into a long hug.

After a few minutes, she pulled away slightly so as to look him in the eyes, which were now smiling along with the rest of him.

"Well, when you're ready, I'll be around because I'm moving here." She punctuated the last three words by poking him in the chest as she spoke.

He laughed. "Good."


	14. Chapter 14

**Mary**

Whenever Mary was nervous, which wasn't all that often, she would feel a knot forming deep in the pit of her stomach. That's not what she was feeling now. This was more like butterflies in her chest, accompanied by a bit of lightheadedness and an inability to keep her hands still, a collection of symptoms altogether new to her. It had started last night, when Matthew had called to tell her that he was flying through Heathrow on his way back to Dublin from Manchester today and had a three-hour layover. He knew she'd be at the airport later on in the day to pick up Sybil, so he was wondering, did she want to come by earlier than planned so they could have lunch together one more time? He'd caught her off guard. When they'd parted, she wasn't anxious because she knew they would stay in touch, but seeing him again this soon, _was it really a good idea?_

During the week he was in London, Mary and Matthew had enjoyed themselves going out to dinner and to museums and shops, taking walks in Hyde Park, getting to know each other and getting to like each other and not thinking about the future or the fact that he lived in a different country, one to which he'd be returning in short order. They'd kissed and even rounded second base, one might say, but they'd remained true to the line she'd drawn on their first "date" at Jasper's. Mary had been tempted— _very tempted_ —to cross it, but she did not want sex— _good_ sex—clouding her judgment when it came to making a decision about what would obviously have to be a long distance relationship.

Sybil, Mary knew, lost years of her life to that ass their parents had foisted on her, Larry Grey, because the physical distance between them while she was at university lulled her into a false sense of happiness. Mary didn't believe Matthew was anything like Larry, but nevertheless she wanted to steer clear of a similar fate. She couldn't proceed without being sure. That's how much she liked him—she was making him (and herself) wait for more sex.

Mary still hadn't put a name to what she was feeling when she saw him in the distance. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt under a light jacket and carrying a small duffel bag. She smiled.

_Why, when he is so easy to like, does everything else have to be hard? Why does he have to live so far away?_

She stood as he approached her and smiled as he leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. It was the greeting they had settled on after several awkward tries. They weren't a couple, but it was clear both of them wanted to be. The question of how that was going to happen was still up in the air so until it was all settled, they greeted each other as friends, which, Mary supposed, really was what they were. She had only known him two weeks, that was true, but he hardly felt like a stranger anymore. From the first night on, she truly wanted to know Matthew, and as she got to know him that desire became greater still.

"How was your Christmas?" He asked brightly.

"It was very nice, though it was a bit odd not having Sybil there."

"I still can't believe that she stayed in Dublin an extra week. I'm actually rather anxious to see what state Tom is in. He's already promised to tell all in drunken detail this evening. He does tend to wear his heart on his sleeve, but lovesick is not a word I would have ever used to describe him before now."

"I would say the same thing about Sybil, though that's only because of how emotionally detached she was in her previous relationship. To be honest, this is not really out of character for her, given how impulsive and so full of feeling she is about everything else. If she showed up today married, I wouldn't be very surprised."

Matthew laughed a little bit nervously. "You know, when Sybil sent me her picture before the swap, I had an inkling that he might like her, but I certainly didn't expect this."

Mary smiled and said, "It's funny how life can surprise you."

They looked at each other for a long time, both knowing that she was no longer talking about just her sister and his best friend.

Matthew dropped his chin to his chest, a bit sheepishly, perhaps not ready, Mary thought, to face whatever the future held for them.

After a moment, he said, "Well, if this turns out to be a great family scandal, I certainly hope you don't blame me for it."

Mary laughed, the question that had passed between them a moment ago off the table at least for now. "I'll absolutely blame you," she said, adding with a smile, "But that won't necessarily mean I won't still want to be friends with you."

"I guess I can live with the consequences as long as that remains the case."

She would be his friend, but she knew her heart would want more.

"So . . . lunch?" He pointed to a small café across the terminal and they walked toward it together.

Over sandwiches, she asked him about his Christmas and his mother, about getting back to work after a long holiday, and the conversation was perfectly nice, if superficial. Mary supposed he could sense it too, the nervous energy between them. The butterflies in her chest kept fluttering to the point she thought they might burst out.

As the hour he had free before he'd have to go back through security to make his flight came close to an end, Mary began to think that whatever feeling she couldn't identify insider her might cause her to erupt in tears. A break up. That's what this felt like to her, like something special she didn't want to end was ending and there was nothing she could do. The thing that was fluttering in her chest was powerlessness—that's what Mary had never experienced before, not with a man, not with anyone. She didn't want this to be the end. _But how do I make that clear?_

She watched Matthew as he paid the check and started to gather his things. He stood up. _This is it_ , she thought. Then he abruptly sat back down. She was momentarily startled, until she looked at his face and saw everything she was feeling reflected in his eyes.

"This feels like an end, doesn't it?" He said with his brow furrowed. "Except the relationship hasn't happened yet. I don't know why that is."

Mary let out a sigh of relief, "I don't know either. It's been bothering me all morning. As much as I like you, I have to confess that feeling . . . well, _discombobulated_ about someone is sort of foreign to me. I'm not sure I like it. "

He laughed, which made her feel good. "Can I confess something?"

"Go on."

"The reason that I came here, that I did the house-swap with Sybil, was because I was thinking about moving to London."

" _Were_ thinking? As in past tense?"

"Am thinking. What I mean is I was trying to confirm a gut feeling that this was what was next for me."

"So you _are_ moving here?" _Oh, please God._

"I think so, yes."

And just like that Mary's butterflies did burst out of her chest, but in a good way. "Why didn't you bloody say so!?" She was practically yelling, but she didn't care, the happiness in her heart obvious in her bright eyes. "I've been _crazy_ this week trying to figure out how this could possibly work, and you've had the answer the whole time!"

Matthew laughed and took her hands in his. "I didn't want to put any pressure on things. Or freak you out by making you think that I was making such a big life decision just for you."

"Matthew, I want you to do everything in life just for me."

And with this they stood and embraced like a real honest to goodness couple, which is what they were. _Finally._

When they pulled apart, he said with a sigh, "Unfortunately, for the moment, I really do have to go back now."

"All right," Mary said, reluctantly leaving his arms.

"I'll call you when I'm home. And we can compare notes on the lovebirds once we've seen them."

"Looking forward to it." Then, an idea popped into her head. "Matthew, what are you doing New Year's Eve?"


	15. Chapter 15

 

**Matthew**

Matthew had flown into Dublin countless times and never thought anything of it, but this time as he saw the city lights get nearer and nearer from his window seat on the Aer Lingus plane carrying him home, he couldn't help but feel a little bit sentimental. The city had been his home for so long, and now he knew without a doubt that he'd soon be leaving it. As much as he expected to toil over it, at the end of the day, the decision had been an easy one. All he'd been after on this holiday was confirmation—just as he'd told Mary—and what he'd ended up finding was a whole new set of reasons to go. All of them leading back to her, Miss Mary Crawley.

He had to laugh, once again, at the ridiculousness of having a relationship with a woman who already carried his last name. He supposed it would make for an easy joke among his friends, but he didn't care. Her name, his name, was in a way what had led him to her in the first place. Hadn't Sybil, in their first conversation, sheepishly admitted to choosing his house-swap listing over the dozens of others in Dublin because he was a _Crawley_ , like her? Thinking of Sybil now, Matthew thought of the recent breakup Mary had referenced, the event that had driven Sybil to get away from her life for a bit. He also thought of Sybil reading and treasuring his lonely friend's book and how, in her innocent search for escape, had offered an escape to Tom as well. In thinking of Tom, someone who was very like a brother to him, Matthew couldn't help but be amused by the idea that they had managed to find a pair of sisters to fall in love with.

And, yes, he could admit it now. Now, that he knew they'd have a future in relatively close proximity, he could let the thought float freely in his mind.

_I am falling in love with Mary._

Matthew had not given much thought to fate before, but after this Christmas not even the greatest barrister in the world could convince him that there were not greater forces at play.

The plane's bumpy landing pulled Matthew out of his reverie. A few minutes later, out of the jetway, he'd just started to quicken his pace to make it around the crowd that had formed in the gate area, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A young woman with blue eyes greeted him with a smile. He'd never met her in person, so he might not have recognized her had she not been so prominent in his thoughts just moments ago.

"Sybil?"

"Yes, hi, Matthew," she said brightly, "I though I might see you. I think I'm going back on your plane."

There was a moment of awkwardness as a woman trying to push a stroller and pull a suitcase ran into Sybil. Matthew guided Sybil over to the wall and was suddenly struck by how odd it was that he felt like he knew her even though he didn't really.

"I know it's been a week, but I hope everything was OK with the flat," she said.

"It was great, thanks. And for you?"

Here she blushed, "Given that his face basically gives everything away anyway, so you'll likely figure it out, I might as well tell you I didn't actually spend much time in it."

Matthew laughed at the oddity of hearing her talk about Tom with such familiarity, but there was no denying the emotion that was beaming from her face. "Well, if not the lodgings, then I'll hope that the holiday brought you everything you wanted."

"It was everything I _needed_ , which is more important." She paused for a moment and added, "Thank you. For introducing us, I mean. Even with the house swap, we'd still not have met if you'd not asked him to come fetch me. None of it would have happened if it weren't for you."

Matthew thought about returning the sentiment—was the same not true of Sybil, with him and Mary?—but he stopped himself, realizing he didn't want to steal from Mary the moment of sharing such a precious revelation with her sister.

"I hope you enjoyed London. Standing here I'm suddenly feeling like I got the better end of the swap. I gave you the keys to my dumpy flat and you gave me the keys to the kingdom, so to speak."

_Oh, just wait, Sybil._ "I had a lovely time, thank you."

"I hope Mary didn't continue to be a nuisance."

"Oh, um, no."

"I still can't believe she barged in on you in the middle of your first night there. She's lovely usually, but she can act rather entitled sometimes."

"It turned out all right," he said, hoping he was succeeding at containing the grin that he was so sure would give him away.

"Well, I'll let you go. I'm sure you're anxious to get home and I know Tom's anxious to see you. It was wonderful to meet you, Matthew."

She held out her hand, and he shook it, saying, "Likewise."

He started again toward the terminal but after a few steps took one look back. She'd been watching him go and upon seeing him waved again, smiling warmly. He turned back around, on his way, and felt very glad to know that she'd be in his life for a long time.

**XXX**

Tom had been leaning against a wall, seemingly staring into space with a blank look on his face, when Matthew spotted him. He turned his head as Matthew approached and his expression changed immediately into a wide grin.

"You know, I'd gotten so used to you always looking sullen that I'm not sure I remembered what you looked like happy."

Tom rolled his eyes, clearly ready for Matthew's ribbing, but also clearly not caring to hide what he was feeling.

The two shook hands and quickly headed out toward the parking lot.

"So, good trip?" Tom asked.

"Not as good as yours, and you didn't even have to go anywhere."

"Please. I know you're holding out."

While Mary would get to tell Sybil, Matthew would get to tell Tom, but not without having some fun first.

"You can't possibly believe both of us found the woman of our dreams the same week. Honestly, what would be the chances?"

"I believe the phrase was, 'I'm not there yet, but not terribly far behind.' And I'm Irish, I always believe the chances are good."

"Your memory is too sharp for its own good."

Tom smirked, "You're probably right about that."

"I saw Sybil after I got off the plane. She stopped me to say hello—and looked very happy." Tom blushed a little, which made Matthew laugh. "In the decade I have known you, I don't think I've ever seen you blush about anything ever."

"She does it all the time. I guess it's catching." He paused, as if deliberating whether he wanted to say what he said next, but then he did say it, quietly, while looking at his feet. "And you've never seen me in love before."

"Well, it looks good on you. On _both_ of you."

They'd just reached Tom's car. As he was opening his door, Tom asked with a smirk, "And is this what it looks like on you?"

Matthew rolled his eyes as he tossed his bag into the back seat. They both got in, and as Tom began to pull away, Matthew said, "Well, we can discuss that at the pub, after several of the very many drinks you owe me."

Tom laughed as Matthew brought his hand to his chin and put on a faux-serious expression, saying, "In fact, I don't think I should have to buy my own drinks ever again."

"One soul mate for a lifetime's supply of beer? For a lightweight like you? Done."

**XXX**

Tom was stunned. "Are you for real? You and Sybil's _sister_? And you asked _me_ what the odds were!?"

"You said chances are always good, so there you have it," Matthew responded with a laugh.

"Well, feck. Greater forces are obviously at work here, so to drink to this we're going to need something much stronger." Tom motioned to the bartender and pointed at the Jameson Whiskey on the shelf behind him, while holding up two fingers with his other hand.

Once poured, each of them picked up a shot glass. Tom held his up to clink it with Matthew's. "To Crawley sisters!" Matthew laughed, but just as he was about to touch his shot glass to Tom's, Tom quickly pulled his back as if recognizing the words that had just come out of his mouth. Barely containing his laughter, he said, "Wait, she has your last name already!"

"You don't say."

"Maybe I should change my name to Crawley."

"Are we going to drink this or not?"

With that they clinked their glassed and downed the whiskey. Matthew quickly motioning to the bartender for another round.

"Tom Crawley—I could get used to that."

"Wow, it's not even been a minute, and it's already not very funny."

"Never mind you, I'm sure I will find it funny for a long time."

They both laughed and drank their second shot.

"So how did it happen anyway?" Tom asked.

"Well, she came in that first night at like 2:30 in the morning—or don't you remember?" Matthew said playfully.

"Remember? How could I forget! That call effectively delayed me and Sybil kissing for the first time by a good 18 hours."

"Once she got off the phone, she grilled me about you a little and then made tea?"

"Made tea?"

"You should have seen it. She was in the kitchen for about 15 minutes and came out with this antique pot and silver tray, like she was serving the bloody queen. It was adorable." Thinking back on it, even with his mind a bit dulled by the alcohol, Matthew could picture her walking toward him that night clear as day. That might have been when it started for him.

"All that to impress you?"

"Actually no, that's just how she does things."

"So you had a very formal tea. Then?"

"She told me about how bad her night had been. Some Turkish bloke she was out with got drunk and passed out, so she and her friend had to drag him back to his hotel. Then she and the friend got into a fight. And then . . ." Matthew trailed off. It was likely Tom, knowing Matthew so well as he did, might put the pieces together, but Matthew didn't want to leave so obvious a trail.

"And then?"

"Then I realized I was over Lavinia."

Tom responded with a small smile. "She'd be glad you're happy." Matthew wasn't sure what to say to that, but before he could formulate something, Tom continued, "No matter how you may have felt about her, that's all she'd ever wanted, mate."

Matthew looked over at Tom and smiled, grateful that even the best kept secrets aren't secrets to your closest friend. Tom smiled back and took a sip from his pint. "I guess this means you really are leaving," he said, changing the subject.

"Yeah."

"I suppose you were never meant to be a Dubliner forever."

"You could always come to London, you know."

Tom smiled sheepishly at this, and Matthew wondered whether it was already a done deal.

"Actually," Tom said, "I offered, but she wants to come here."

Matthew's eyes widened. "Is that so?"

"Yep, in three months or when she finds a job, whichever comes first."

"Things are moving along, then," Matthew teased. "Must have been quite the spark that set things off."

" _Quite_ the spark," Tom said somewhat sheepishly swirling the liquid in his glass.

"So how did it happen?"

"Well, I suppose for her it was when she discovered I wrote her favorite book."

"And for you?"

"When I laid eyes on her at the airport."

Matthew laughed. "You are a romantic fool."

"I'm serious! One look at her and it was like my life flashed before my eyes. When she walked over to me and I realized she was the girl staying at your flat, I could barely string a sentence together."

"So what happened the second day? I don't know if she told you but she called me because she thought she'd upset you."

"Yeah, she mentioned it. Somehow after she arrived, we went the whole night without her ever hearing my surname, so when she mentioned the book, she didn't know I'd written it, and I'm embarrassed to say that I responded like your garden variety basket case."

"But things seemed to have settled in your favor."

"Indeed."

"And I can only assume that your years of celibacy are over."

Tom, with an innocent air, replied, "You are free to assume whatever you like."

They ordered another round (and two more shots), and as the bartender was pouring them, Tom asked, "Mary didn't happen to invite you to this ball thing did she?"

"On New Year's, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"She did actually, but not until today, so I'll have to book a flight when I get home."

"Well, at least I'll know someone there," he said before taking a long pull form his pint glass. "Also where the hell am I supposed to get a set of tails?"

Matthew couldn't help but laugh. "If I weren't already going, you can be sure I would fly back and gatecrash just for the sight of you in a penguin suit."

"What is the fecking point of even wearing those things now?"

"Says the man who couldn't be bothered to wear a tie to his sister's wedding."

"Hey, she said I didn't have to."

"Speaking of your family, I can only assume they loved her."

Tom rolled his eyes. "One day with the Bransons, and I'm pretty well sure all of them will be ready to disown me if I foul things up." He paused and added, "Mam will be sad to see you go."

"Well, if she's getting Sybil in return, I doubt she'll complain much."

Matthew hadn't thought about how he would miss the rest of Tom's family, who had become like an extension of his own in his time in Dublin, but he realized he would very much. It was odd how grief—the Bransons' and later his—had played a role in cementing their bond and now would make this new period in his and Tom's life all the sweeter.

"You know, it's funny," Matthew said, "just a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed that anyone's life could change so fast. I guess it's really true that when you know, you know."

Tom replied, "I think for me, the curious thing isn't the timing, but the certainty."

"What do you mean?"

"After my father died, I didn't think it would be possible to ever be so sure about anything in my life."

Matthew raised his glass and said, "To Colin Branson."

Tom did the same and added, "To Reggie and Lavinia Swire."

Matthew was thoughtful for a moment, then finally said, "May we endeavor to deserve all the magic they're doing up there for the likes of us."

**XXX**

When they'd finally had enough of drinking and catching up, Matthew declined joining Tom in the taxi, preferring to walk home to clear his head. He thought about all the things he'd have to do in the coming weeks and months before he left Dublin. Give notice at the firm. Notify his landlord. Sell his car. Arrange movers. Look for a job. Look for a new flat.

Visit the Swires one last time.

He remembered people telling him, shortly after Lavinia's death, that someday, he'd be able to think about her and feel happy instead of sad, but when he'd hear it he'd think that would never be true for him. The guilt he'd carried about wanting to break up with her, he thought, would be a burden he would carry forever. Walking home now, he thought about how much she loved taking a stroll with him late at night, even in the chill of the Dublin winter. He smiled. It was a happy memory.

As he walked into his building, Matthew felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text from Mary.

"Lovesick doesn't even begin to cover it. Oh, and she's moving to Dublin. I miss you."

Matthew smiled and pressed the call back button. His heart was as light as it had ever been.


	16. Chapter 16

 

**Sybil**

It was almost 10 p.m. by the time Sybil and Mary got back to Sybil's flat. A minor delay during takeoff, what felt like ages waiting for her suitcase at Heathrow, killer traffic, but finally, she was back in her own room. And yet sitting here on her bed trying to motivate herself to unpack and not leave it until morning, Sybil couldn't help but admit that she longed to be in his room instead. To be with him. It'd been less than half a day and the 29th, when he'd be coming for New Year's, already couldn't come soon enough. She had to laugh at herself, and did so loudly, falling back onto her bed. Lovesick and with no hope of a cure—that's what Mary had said in the car, rolling her eyes but clearly amused at seeing her little sister in such a state.

Sybil sat back up hearing Mary coming to her bedroom door.

"Travel-induced delirium?"

Sybil, trying to repress her smile, said, "Will you roll your eyes again if I say love-induced."

"Oh, dear God, Sybil." And Sybil let out another chortle as she saw her sister, indeed, roll her eyes again and walk back toward the living room.

Sybil supposed she couldn't blame Mary. Sybil had talked her ear off the entire way home about what a wonderful time she'd had, how wonderful Tom was, how she still couldn't believe she'd finally found the Tom Branson she'd been daydreaming about for years, how much she loved his family, how much she loved Dublin, how she couldn't wait to move there, how she couldn't believe that this was true love felt like, how she couldn't believe that she'd ever considered living without it, how—no matter how much time she'd wasted with Larry—she couldn't hate her parents because how could someone this in love hate anyone?

At this, Mary had said, "Well, I suppose they'll be glad to hear that at least."

Sitting on her bed now and looking around at the artifacts of the life she had run away from just two weeks ago, Sybil wished she could go back in time and tell herself, "It'll be OK. You're going to find him."

That version of herself probably would have been embarrassed by all of Sybil's prattling on, but Sybil couldn't help it. That girl didn't know what Sybil knew now: _How different living is when you have someone to live for._

She stood up from her spot on the bed, went over to her purse and took out the small note that Tom had left for her there, without her noticing, while she was checking in at the airport. She found it just after sitting down on the plane.

_Dearest Sybil,_

_Next time, stay forever._

_Yours, Tom_

_PS. Is the white-tie thing really non-negotiable?_

_PPS. I've been told I look quite dashing in a sport coat._

_PPPS. I'm bringing one just in case you change your mind._

She smiled, reading it for the bazillionth time, then walked over to her vanity and slid it into the side of the mirror.

"I'm making some tea, would you like some?" Mary called from the kitchen.

Sybil stood up and walked out into the living room. "Oh, thank you! Yes, please."

"It's only tea, darling, or is that, 'Thank you for listening to the Tom Branson love litany in the car.'"

Now sitting on the kitchen table, Sybil could see the teasing smirk on Mary's face as she poured their tea on the counter and brought the cups over to the table.

"I must have really exhausted you if you're not bothering with the tray," Sybil said with a laugh.

"I don't know about exhaustion, but I did consider jumping out of the car the third time you mentioned how much you loved the sound of his voice."

"I did not mention it three times," Sybil said, then paused and, eager to tease Mary back, started batting her eyelashes and added in an exaggeratedly breathy voice, "He does have a lovely accent, though." She laughed as her sister shook her head and rolled her eyes at her—again. "You volunteered to pick me up, didn't you? Gwen would have been all too happy to hear about my romantic exploits."

"I suppose I did ask for it, but only because I have my own news to share."

"Oh?"

"I'll start with Edith. She and the editor are officially an item."

"What? Isn't he technically still married?"

"It's just haggling over money at this point, or so Edith keeps saying. Apparently, it's been going on for some time, but she told mum and dad over Christmas because she'd like for him to come to the ball?"

"What did they say?"

"That it'll be a scandal, or course. The head of one of London's biggest newspapers can't have an affair with a columnist in the middle of his divorce from his actress wife without the gossip rags getting wind of it."

"Oh, dear. Poor Edith."

"Poor Edith?"

"Surely you don't believe, given everything that's at stake, that she'd have entered into the relationship if she didn't love him? If she's told our parents it's because she hopes to have a future with him, don't you think? Or are you so concerned with the scandal yourself, you haven't considered her feelings?"

"I just don't see why couldn't she have waited until it's all blown over."

"That's not fair to Edith. If she really loves him—"

"Oh, Sybil—"

"Oh, Sybil, what? You can roll your eyes at me and call me lovesick all you want, but love does change your view on things." Sybil watched her sister, always so prim and proper, as she sipped her tea, and Sybil tried to imagine Mary losing herself in someone. It's not that she considered Mary incapable of love—and, no, Mary would never be one to give _Edith_ the benefit of the doubt when it came to anything—but for Mary, it would be hard if she always insisted on remaining in control. Sybil sincerely hoped that wouldn't always be the case, but she couldn't help but stick up for Edith. "I suppose you couldn't understand what she or I—"

"That's not fair!"

It was a stronger reaction than Sybil was expecting, but if Mary was going to push, she would push back.

"Isn't it? When have you ever felt the kind of urgency of wanting to be with someone that makes you want to jump out of your skin?"

"Oh, are you an expert now in matters of the heart, after two weeks?"

"No, but I know how much you like to antagonize Edith, and I won't let you judge her in this way. Not when you don't know what that feels like."

Mary set her cup down and put her hands in her lap, suddenly seeming to Sybil more hurt than angry. Quietly, she said, "I know perfectly well what that feels like."

Sybil narrowed her eyes, not sure about what to make of this revelation. _Mary has been in love?_

"With who?"

Mary sighed, and her lips fell into a small smile. "I didn't want us to be arguing when I told you this."

Now Sybil was even more confused. "Mary?"

"Matthew."

Sybil almost dropped her tea cup. Seeing her big sister there, looking on the verge of tears, delicate and vulnerable, but also rather proud of herself and defiant—a mix of emotions only Mary could be capable of—Sybil's eyes widened and her mouth stretched into a disbelieving grin.

"Matthew. As in Matthew Crawley? Who stayed—"

"Who stayed here at your flat, yes." At this Mary covered her face with her hands, as if to cry but when Sybil went over to her to pull her hands off, what she saw in her face were not tears but a smile as bright as any she had ever seen on her sister.

"How in the world did it happen? And I've been with you for hours, how could you not say anything until now?"

"Well, you were sort of going on and on."

"Don't give me that. You're telling me everything right now! Oh, Mary, do you realize? We're in love with best friends!"

**XXX**

"Do you mean to tell me you haven't had sex since the first night?"

The sisters' chat had moved from the kitchen where Mary had made her revelation, to the sofa where she filled the details in for Sybil on her encounter with Matthew on the first night and the series of dates that followed, to—given the lateness of the hour—Sybil's bed where they sat now facing one another, Sybil at the head of the bed under the covers, Mary at the foot of it sitting over them. It was a scene that had played out in their family's home many times over when they were young girls. The subject now, of course, of a much more mature nature.

Mary shook her head in response to her sister's question.

"Wasn't it any good?"

"Of course, it was _fantastic_. That's the point. I didn't want it to cloud my judgment. At the time, I didn't know he was planning on moving here, and I didn't want to jump into something with someone who lived elsewhere."

Sybil furrowed her brow, trying to understand her sister's logic. "Well, you have more will power than me. Tom so much as looks at me and my clothes fly off of their own accord."

"Sybil!"

"Oh, you can't be demure with me now that I know you've had sex in my flat."

Sybil had never talked to Mary liked this, and it was too much fun not to tease her. She could see now the difference in her. It was subtle, but it was there. Her eyes were brighter, she was more relaxed, she no longer looked like she was holding everything back, and then there was the fact that she was talking about sex at all.

For whatever reason, at that moment, Sybil's mind went to the sex talk their mother had given her as she was getting ready for her coming out ball, just after she'd turned 18. She'd always wondered what her sisters had thought of Cora's advice.

"Did mum talk to you before your debut . . . you know, about sex? Do remember what she said?"

Mary brought her hand to her forehead. "Ugh. I'm still trying to forget it. There I am trying to feel elegant and graceful and mama turns up the awkward dial to 100."

Sybil laughed. "Maybe it wasn't the best time to bring it up. But I've been thinking, since being with Tom, about what she said."

"And what did she say to you?"

"She said that now was the time when men would start taking an interest in me, and I when I took an interest in someone I needed to think in terms of the future. But then she said that once I did find someone, sex, if it was with someone whom I really loved, was supposed to be fun." Sybil puckered her lips and put on her best American accent, "the most terrific fun."

Mary smiled. "I got that speech, too."

"At the time, I think I was a bit cynical about it. I thought it was her way of telling me that in my role as girlfriend or wife, it was something that I had to do, so I might as well have fun with it. But with Tom, it _is_ fun. What I feel with him is something I never want to let go of . . . I mean, I love it because I'm with him and we're together, but I also feel . . . good about _myself_. I never really thought a man could make me feel that. With Larry, it's not that it was terrible or anything. It just was never about me or us, even, it was always about him. The fact that I was present was almost a coincidence."

Mary laughed and put her hands over her ears. "And now you've said more than I've ever wanted to know about Larry Grey."

Sybil laughed too, but then got quiet again. "I guess this is my way of saying that I hope Matthew makes it special for you because you deserve it."

Mary smiled. "At the risk of sounding like I'm talking in euphemisms, he did and I know he will. And if there is a doubt in you, I'll clarify that I do very much want to do it again."

Sybil smiled. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, barely containing her glee, she said, "Tom and I did it eight times the first day."

"SYBIL!" Mary threw herself on the bed and pulled the duvet over her head, which caused Sybil to howl with laughter.

After their fit of giggles had subsided, Mary sat back up. "You know, I would thank the good Lord for sending me Matthew except he's taking you away."

"Ireland's not that far," Sybil responded quietly.

"No. But there won't be much more of this for us."

Without thinking Sybil crawled over to her sister, and the two held each other in a tight hug.

Sybil, trying not to sound like there were tears pooling in her eyes, said, "Thank you, dear sister."

She pulled back, and Mary wiped the tear that had escaped and was running down Sybil's cheek with her index finger. "Thank you, darling." She stood up, saying, "I must be off to bed. I told mum, I'd take the train back tomorrow to help with the arrangements for the ball."

"Did you invite Matthew?"

"I did."

"Oh, good. They'll have each other to talk to." This gave Sybil pause. "Mary, do you suppose Edith will hate us?"

"Because our boyfriends are close? I don't know, but then she's always hated me."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Well, all the more reason for you to be easy on her."

"Oh, fine. I'll be nice to the editor. Goodnight, darling."

"Goodnight."

Sybil sighed as Mary closed the door behind her. Then, she smiled thinking about how, growing up, she was close with Mary in spite of the fact that she'd often felt as if they had very little in common. As adults, they remained very different people, but they were closer now than ever before. Like opposite sides of the same coin.

Sybil, already in her pajamas, a T-shirt and the boxer shorts she'd stolen from Tom, tucked herself into bed and reached for her mobile on her nightstand.

First, she texted Gwen: "Lunch or dinner tomorrow?"

Then Edith: "Mary told me about Gregson drama with mum and dad. Are you ok? Forget everyone and be happy! Let's talk soon. Love, Syb."

Then Tom: "You've surely heard by now re: M&M? That's how I'm referring to them from now on."

Then another to Tom: "I love you."

Then another: "I miss you."

Then another: "I will make the tails worth your while."

Then, he replied, "My darling, you drive a hard bargain."

Then again: "I love you too."


	17. Chapter 17

 

**Tom**

It was something akin to refuge that Tom was seeking when he walked into the parlor and found the piano. A Steinway grand, much nicer, of course, than the small upright in his mother's sitting room, where their neighbor Mrs. McMullen had sat with him for so many afternoons when he was growing up. He hadn't played in years, but he sat at the bench now thinking that of all the fine things inside this fairy palace—for that's what Downton Abbey felt like to him—this was the first that seemed welcoming. He would go as far as to say it offered a measure of comfort.

Not that Tom had endured anything too terrible at the hands of the Crawleys so far. Sybil's parents, Robert and Cora, had expressed concern about how fast things seemed to be moving, but they were kind for the most part, even if it was clear that their nerves were a bit frayed. That wasn't Tom's fault. The truth was that Robert and Cora had been ambushed. Independently of one another, all three Crawley daughters had decided to introduce their special someones to their parents on the same whirlwind weekend, during which the couple also happened to be hosting a 300-person fancy dress ball.

Each daughter's beau got his own separate audience. Last night, Robert and Cora, and their respective mothers, Violet Crawley and Martha Levinson, the latter visiting Downton from New York, had dined with Edith and Michael Gregson—an about-to-be-divorced newspaper titan of significant wealth and even more significant notoriety. Today, the foursome had devoted luncheon to Mary and Matthew and dinner to Sybil and Tom. Tom would have preferred not to be the last, though Sybil considered that an advantage. They'd have exhausted themselves of questions by then, she insisted, and would be so worried about the upcoming ball that they'd go easy on him.

He didn't see it that way. Gregson, for all his scandal, was among the most prominent and wealthy men in London. Matthew was not rich by any means, but he was the son of an upper middle class English family and a lawyer—something Robert would admire in him, given that he was of the same profession. There was also the matter of his name. Violet believed it was a clue as to an aristocratic forebear. ("Likely a younger son, not an heir, unfortunately for you, dear.") Tom, by contrast, was the son of an Irish car mechanic and his homemaker wife, and worked for a regional travel magazine. He'd have preferred to meet the family _before_ they'd been shown two better résumés and family histories to compare his to.

Now that dinner was over, though, he could admit that Sybil had been at least partly right. The conversation had gone fairly smoothly and for the most part had been about the upcoming ball. Still, there were moments that put him squarely under the microscope. The low point was probably the first of these, when Violet, inquiring as to his lineage during the opening course, asked if his family name was likely to be found in any of "the usual registries."

The question caused Sybil to roll her eyes, "Really, granny!"

"It's just a question."

"Mum, the only lists my ancestors are likely to be on are any containing the names of fugitive Irish rebels."

This made Sybil and Martha laugh and let Tom know he had more than one ally at the table.

There was also talk about the book. To his favor, Cora and Martha were big fans of it. Robert, who admitted to never reading novels, didn't have much to say. Violet, a traditionalist of the highest order, considered it a bit too anti-establishment.

"You're a fine writer, Tom, but I couldn't help but empathize with the poor girl's parents," she said, "and I am astute enough to deduce that that was not where you were hoping the readers' sympathies would end up." She'd been looking down her nose at him as she spoke, but the expression on her face was not an unkind one.

He smiled back and responded, "No, I'm afraid it wasn't."

Once dinner was done, everyone moved to the drawing room for drinks, and it was from there that he had escaped. He'd been gone only a few minutes, but he knew he should return soon lest Sybil start to think he had gotten lost (again). Instead of getting up though, he put his right hand on the keys and played the first notes of Beethoven's Für Elise, the very first piece he'd learned to play. Only a couple of measures in, he withdrew his hand quickly, hearing footsteps approach from behind. It was Martha. He moved to stand, but she lifted up her cane and pointed him back down to the bench.

"No, no, no. That thing hasn't been so much as dusted off in years. Someone should make sure it still works." Having made it across the room, she motioned for him to slide over and sat down next to him. She narrowed her eyes at him and then smiled, putting him at ease.

"I like you, kid, and I'm here to tell you, don't worry about Robert and Violet. They act like your regular high and proper aristocrats, but once you get to know them, inside, they're a jar of puddin'."

It was easy for Tom to see why she was Sybil's favorite.

Martha pointed to the piano. "Case in point. I bought this thing when Mary was six years old, so the girls could learn how to play, but none of them had the discipline. And Robert and Cora couldn't be bothered with making them stick with it. Edith did the longest, but even she only took lessons for three years. You?"

"Four days a week between the ages of 6 and 18, whether I wanted to or not."

Martha leaned in and whispered, "Your parents are made of stronger stuff."

Tom smiled widely. His first real smile in the presence of someone other than Sybil since he'd arrived there. He turned to look at the piano and put both hands on the keys.

"I really liked it at first, but I started losing interest around 13, so to convince me to stick with it, my Da told me it would help with the ladies."

"Smart man," Martha said. "Now, let's see what you got."

"I'm afraid that for all the practice, I'm not much of a player."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Do you have a request?"

"Oh, whatever you like. I doubt you'll know anything fro my era."

Tom smiled, feeling emboldened by her encouragement. "Try me."

"Moxie! I like it. OK, handsome, how about As Time Goes By."

Smirk firmly planted on his face, never taking his eyes off of Martha, Tom began playing the classic song.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, well, well!"

He stopped with a laugh. "It's my Mam's favorite."

"Your people are clearly my kind of people, kid," she said. After a beat, she cleared her throat, then said, "From the top."

He looked back to the keys and started playing the song again, only to turn back to Martha in surprise—though never missing a note—when she started singing.

_You must remember this_

_A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh._

_The fundamental things apply_

_As time goes by._

_And when two lovers woo_

_They still say, "I love you."_

_On that you can rely_

_No matter what the future brings_

_As time goes by._

_Moonlight and love songs_

_Never out of date._

_Hearts full of passion_

_Jealousy and hate._

_Woman needs man_

_And man must have his mate_

_That no one can deny._

_It's still the same old story_

_A fight for love and glory_

_A case of do or die._

_The world will always welcome lovers_

_As time goes by._

_Oh yes, the world will always welcome lovers_

_As time goes by._

When they finished the song, both Tom and Martha were surprised to hear enthusiastic clapping behind them. Without their noticing Sybil, Cora and Robert had stepped into the parlor, lured by the music, and had sat down without their entertainers' knowledge.

"You know, Martha," Robert said. "I believe the last time I heard you sing may have been in the last century."

"Well, dear," Martha replied, turning back to the room, "at my age, you can only bring out the instrument on special occasions, and I haven't had a decent accompanist in some time."

Cora, smiling warmly, said, "That was lovely, Tom. Sybil hadn't mentioned you could play."

_She doesn't know_.

He looked over to Sybil, curious as to her reaction, and saw her coming over to him with an expression that only he could read accurately as a cross between "That's brilliant!" and "What the hell?" She, not giving her ignorance away, put her hands on his shoulders, kissed the top of his head and turned back to her mother.

"He's a man of many talents," she said proudly.

Tom dropped his chin to his chest in mild embarrassment. Less for the compliment Cora had paid him and more for Sybil's innocent kiss. He'd come to discover that she was all too eager to engage in public displays of affection, and he was all too happy to oblige—except in front of her parents.

"He takes requests," Martha said, looking at him cheekily.

"How about a holiday song," Cora said.

"As long as it's an English one," Robert said.

For a moment, Tom wondered whether this was a knock against his being Irish. He was about to speak up, but Martha beat him to it.

"Why, when all the good carols are ours?" She said airly.

Just as she'd spoken, he felt Sybil lower her mouth to his ear and whisper, "This is a longstanding family Christmas feud."

"Your mother's gone home, Robert, so I'm afraid the Americans have you outnumbered," Martha said.

"I see two Americans, two Brits and an Irishman."

"You really think Ireland over here isn't going to side with me?"

Before Robert could answer—Tom doubted this woman ever lost an argument—Martha turned to Sybil and asked her granddaughter, "Do you still remember the words to the one your grandfather and I used to sing together?"

"I think so, but grandma—"

"Oh, you'll be fine," Martha said, waving her off.

To Tom, she said, "OK, kid, here's a real challenge. The song is Baby It's Cold Outside. Do you know it?"

"I do," Tom said nervously, starting to sense what Martha was trying to do.

"The music and the lyrics?"

_Oh, boy._ "Yes, but if you expect me to sing—"

"What?" Martha interrupted, crossing her arms and looking at him with a smirk. "You're going to tell me you're not much of a singer? You said that about the playing, and look how well that turned out."

He turned to Sybil with eyebrows raised as if to ask, "Are we really going to do this?"

She shrugged in response. They both turned to Martha, who said, "Well, don't look at me. Get going!"

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Sybil walked around to the side of the piano, presumably so she could watch Tom as they sang. Seeing her raise her eyes to him, eager not to let her down, Tom suddenly felt very nervous.

He put his fingers on the keys and started playing. The first line was hers, and she sang it softly and shyly.

"I really can't stay."

Bombs could have gone off and he wouldn't have heard anything else but her. The queen could have walked into the room at that moment and he wouldn't have noticed. _How I love you, Sybil_ , he thought, then, quickly remembering that it was his turn, he sang.

"Baby it's cold outside."

_I've got to go away. — Baby it's cold outside._

_This evening has been, — Been hoping that you'd drop in._

_So very nice. — I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice._

_My mother will start to worry. — Beautiful, what's your hurry?_

_My father will be pacing the floor. — Listen to the fireplace roar._

_So really I'd better scurry. — Beautiful, please don't hurry._

_Maybe just a half a drink more. — Put some records on while I pour._

_The neighbors might think . . . — Baby, it's bad out there._

_Say, what's in this drink? — No cabs to be had out there._

_I wish I knew how, — Your eyes are like starlight now._

_To break this spell. — I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell._

_I ought to say no, no, no. — Mind if I move in closer?_

_At least I'm gonna say that I tried. — What's the sense in hurting my pride?_

_I really can't stay. — Baby don't hold out._

_Oh, but it's cold outside._

_I've got to go home. — Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there._

_Say, lend me your coat. — It's up to your knees out there._

_You've really been grand, — Your eyes are like starlight now._

_But don't you see, — How can you do this thing to me?_

_There's bound to be talk tomorrow. — Think of my life long sorrow._

_At least there will be plenty implied. — If you caught pneumonia and died._

_I really can't stay. — Get over that hold out._

_Oh, but it's cold outside_

_Oh, baby it's cold outside_

_Oh, baby it's cold outside_

They didn't take their eyes off one another throughout the song, not even breaking their stare after the song ended. It was the clapping of Martha, Cora and Robert that pulled them from their reverie.

Martha stood from her perch next to Tom and turned toward Cora and Robert with a flourish.

"Now, will you two argue with that?"

Tom turned to see them smiling at each other. He didn't really know whether they would have any true objections to him and Sybil's relationship, but if any objections had existed, Martha had rather ingeniously helped push them aside. Cora turned back to them and said to Martha, "Mother I think you've enjoyed yourself enough for one evening."

"Oh, honey, life really is very boring here if you think that's enough for one evening."

"Well, Sybil and Tom are going to Ripon to meet Gwen for a late drink, and if Sybil truly requires Tom to meet anyone's approval it's hers, so we should let them get ready."

"Oh, very well."

She turned back around to say her goodnights to Sybil and Tom. As he stood, he said, "It was a pleasure, Mrs. Levinson."

She took a step toward him and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "The pleasure was all mine, handsome."

Sybil came around to kiss her goodnight and held her in a tight hug. "Thank you, grandma."

Once left alone, the lovebirds put their arms around each other, and Sybil said playfully, "She likes you very much."

Tom smirked. "And I like her very much. She's quite nice looking, too. So you'd better watch your back."

"Oh, I'm not worried. She's got a bad hip and I know how much you like to—"

Tom shut her up with a kiss. He pulled away to say, "Let's not discuss our favorite positions in your parents house."

"You were perfectly happy putting them into practice last night."

"If you're going to sneak me into a room with a king size bed in it, I'm going to take full advantage."

Sybil laughed and pulled him in for another kiss.

After several minutes, she pulled away with a sigh. "Well, my Piano Man, mama was right about Gwen's approval so let's not keep her waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I concede that Tom knowing by heart the songs he plays here is probably unrealistic, but I've taken artistic license as they are personal favorites.


	18. Chapter 18

 

**Matthew**

For about an hour after guests had started arriving at the annual Downton Abbey New Year's Ball, the entire Crawley family stood in a receiving line by the door. Servers were passing out light hors d'oeuvres and champagne to guests as they mingled in the entrance hall.

It was without a doubt the most formal event Matthew had ever attended. Standing in that grand house, in clothes that had cost him more than he'd ever paid for anything except his car, he couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed.

_How had she survived a lifetime of this?_

Mary was beautiful, elegant, regal and looked every bit the part of a lady reared to be the mistress of such a domain, but Matthew, when he thought of her, also saw a depth and fierceness to her that belied the polished, delicate exterior. In Mary he saw beauty as well as the effort behind it. He loved her for both. And he knew few others were given the chance to see and appreciate both. Watching her now as she smiled and shook hands with incoming guests, he couldn't help but feel proud that she had chosen him. It also occurred to him that the circumstances under which he'd met her—in his pajamas in the middle of the night while she stood over him holding a frying pan—were as incongruous with the setting they were currently in as one could possibly imagine. The house, impressive on its own, seemed to come alive—sparkle, in a way—over the course of the day as hoards of workers dressed it up for the occasion.

Matthew was the son of two working parents who despite their comfortable living valued common sense and practicality above all, so there was a part of him that couldn't help but be a bit cynical about the opulence that radiated from every corner of it. But he could also sense the sincere pride that all who were a part of Downton, from the Crawleys to the Carsons to everyone in between, took in making her shine. He was not so cynical as to begrudge them that pride. Matthew could feel that pride in Mary, when she'd first brought him here, just as he saw it now in Gwen Carson, who'd grown up here with Mary, Edith and Sybil and who, because she was a good sport, was serving as boyfriend baby-sitter to Matthew and Tom while Mary and Sybil fulfilled their official duties. She'd met them at the bottom of the staircase when they'd come down about an hour ago, and since then, she'd been regaling them with the history of the ball and what to expect.

After mingling in the entrance hall, she'd said, everyone would be invited to the ballroom, where a traditional string octet plays the first waltz and officially opens the event. The octet would play for about an hour, until the jazz combo that would liven up the tempo and see the crowd to the new year took over.

The ball itself dated back to the 1850s, when the earl and countess of the time welcomed their army of employees into the ballroom for a servants ball at the end of the holiday season. It became an annual tradition that continued uninterrupted until the first world war, then resumed again until the start of the second. The end of that war in many ways marked the end of the way of life that Downton Abbey had been a symbol of among aristocrats. The earl at that time, Robert Crawley's father, downsized the staff significantly and put ownership of the home in a trust to ensure it would always be taken care of. His only son's family would be able to continue living there, but parts of the home would be open for visitors and available to rent for large events. The ball began again, first as a way to cheer soldiers and nurses after the war, and eventually simply as a celebration for friends of the family, residents of the neighboring village and the few who still worked to maintain the estate, like Gwen's parents.

"So are they here tonight?" Matthew asked her when her narrative came to an end. Gwen pointed out the out couple, taking to one of the servers.

"Mum's easy to spot because she never stops working. I swear the woman does not have an off button."

"Then she's like mine," Matthew responded with a smile.

Tom took a sip of his champagne and said, "I do believe that if Claire Branson were present this evening she'd be shot-gunning the champagne and pocketing the canapés."

Gwen laughed. "Syb and I used to do that when we were teenagers, then after we were good and drunk we'd go hide out in her room and stay up until 5 a.m. eating and watching reruns of Doctor Who."

"That sounds fantastic. Is there a reason we're not doing that tonight?" Tom asked, making Gwen and Matthew laugh.

"Well, unlike you boys I need still need to find someone to kiss at midnight," Gwen said. "In fact, it's already almost nine, so I better get on it—assuming you two are going to be OK on your own while your ladies are still on the job?"

Tom raised his champagne flute to Gwen, saying, "Go forth and plow, red."

She clinked it with hers, turned with a flourish and walked off into the now sizeable crowd.

As Matthew and Tom turned to each other laughing, a voice from the back of the room invited the crowd to move into the ballroom. Both turned back to the door but the family had already moved from their spot near the door.

Looking back to Matthew, Tom said, "Well, I suppose this is as good a time as any to find the toilet. Let us hope I don't get lost this time."

Matthew smiled and looked around. Still not seeing Mary, he proceeded to the ballroom with the rest of the crowd. Once there, after a few minutes, he heard the musicians start hitting their music stands with their bows. The first violinist offered the concert pitch and the rest of the musicians joined up. Once tuned, the octet began with the Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker. A space had already cleared in the center of the room, and Matthew watched with interest as Robert and Cora Crawley, and Charles and Elsie Carson, the latter representing the traditional presence of the "servants," began dancing. About halfway through the song, the couples broke up and found other partners among the crowd, signaling that everyone could join in.

He looked around for Mary again and finally— _Finally!_ —spotted her making her way toward him, with a small smile and looking as radiant and gorgeous, Matthew thought, as anyone could possibly look in a simple black silk dress, her hair up in a loose bun adorned by a small tiara.

"Don't you look dashing," she said as she approached.

Matthew kissed her lightly on the lips and said, "Barely good enough to stand next to you."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll manage."

He tilted his head toward the dance floor, where the next piece after the first waltz was starting.

"You have to ask me properly."

Matthew smiled, always amused by her love of formality. "Of course, Lady Mary, may I have the honor of this dance." He extended his hand out to her.

"Why, yes, Mr. Crawley." She smiled widely as she took his hand.

"You know, Mary," Matthew said as they began to dance. "I was thinking back to the night we met, seeing you bring out the tea, being so prim and proper—and I wondered if someone like you ever let loose."

"I proved that I could that very night, didn't I?" She said this with a twinkle in her eye that made Matthew wonder whether they'd be letting loose like that again tonight. He'd be as patient as she wanted, of course, but a guy could hope.

"Yes, you did," he said with a wink. Then, he added, "I guess what I'm getting to is that I'm curious about what it was like for you growing up here."

She sighed. "Sometimes it's hard even for me to believe I was ever a child. That I wasn't born fully formed, as I am now."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Father is a bit to blame I suppose. As a little girl, I used to love hearing him talk of Downton, and preserving the estate and continuing the work of our ancestors. As soon as he saw that I shared that interest with him, he started preparing me for it. Grooming me, as it were, and forgetting that I was still just a child. So when Edith, Sybil and Gwen would play sardines in the library, I'd think of how _undignified_ it was to use Downton as a playground."

She paused, laughed at herself, and continued, "I'd like to think I've come a long way since. But honestly, it was all just a ploy to be loved by my papa. So much of the tradition he holds dear is folly, but if me serving tea on a silver platter makes him happy and proud, then I don't mind doing it."

Matthew smiled at her, loving her more for such a simple thing—the love of a daughter—being what made her who she was. Before he could stop himself, he thought of Mary as a mother. He couldn't help but ask, "Do you think you'll want your children to grow up here?"

"I'm not sure. They'll know this place, of course, but I've thought lately that ours is likely the last generation that will call it home. It belongs to so many now, not just the Crawleys."

After a moment, she looked at him in the eyes, the sparkle he'd seen moments ago was back when she said, "It also depends on what their father would want."

"Do you remember telling me that you'd never slept with a man you had not danced with first."

"I do."

"Well, it seems sensible then to point out that we're dancing right now."

"Very sensible."

The two laughed at each other and their barely contained sexual frustration. _Surely tonight._ But before either could speak again, glasses started clinking again.

"It's father's toast," Mary said. "Oh, and Sybil has something up her sleeve, which she said you would find very fun."

"OK, then."

"By the way, why didn't you tell me it was Tom's birthday."

Suddenly Matthew knew exactly what would happen next. And yes, it would be very fun.

 

**Tom**

It had taken him a good fifteen minutes to find his way back to the ballroom— _fecking house_ —and even then it was not without the help of another guest. More than an hour in and he still hadn't seen more than an across-the-room glimpse of Sybil. She had promised she would make the evening and the ridiculous clothing, worth his while. So as he was taking wrong turns down the wrong hallways in search for the way back to the ball, he'd started listing in his head the very creative ways he would suggest to her that would in fact do just that.

Once back in the ballroom, the event clearly in full swing, he walked over to the bar, asked for a whiskey and waited for his lady—who obviously would know her way around better than he—to come find him. He could see from where he was standing Matthew and Mary dancing. He laughed at how at ease Matthew seemed in this milieu, in the arms of Mary, and was happy to see his friend enjoying himself. He walked closer to where they were, so he would at least have someone to talk to when they were done dancing. Just as the music finished, though, the room was filled with the sound of clinking glasses. He eyes, like everyone else's, moved to the front of the room where Robert was standing in front of the octet holding a microphone. The room got quiet as he began to speak.

"Thank you so much, everyone, for joining us tonight. Those of you who know me and my family well know how much we treasure this event. We're glad to have your company to celebrate and reflect on another year and look forward to the next. As always we are grateful to Elsie Carson and the rest of the staff for making Downton shine tonight and every day. Before we get to the toast, though, my daughter Sybil has a favor to ask everyone."

Robert moved to hand the microphone off to Sybil, and Tom realized that during Robert's speech he hadn't noticed her standing behind her father. _How didn't I?_ he thought, looking at her now, a right vision in a dark red dress, her hair straightened (which made him smile and think, _special occasions_ ), and her bangs artfully swept to the side with a small pin.

_No_ , _a schlub like me in a sport coat wouldn't have been good enough_.

"Thanks, dad," she said into the microphone. "And thank you to all of you who have joined us here every year for so many years and those who are new. Among those for whom tonight's ball is the first is someone very dear to me who also happens to be celebrating his thirtieth birthday."

_Oh no, she wouldn't._

"So, I'd love it if all of you would be kind enough to help me sing him—his name is Tom, by the way—happy birthday."

_No, no, no, no, no._

He watched, a tight, reluctant smile on his face, as she motioned to the octet to lead the song. And he couldn't contain his blush as something like 300 people sang.

_Happy birthday to you,_

_Happy birthday to you,_

_Happy birthday, dear Tom,_

_Happy birthday to you._

He lost sight of her for a moment as the song ended, then it was as if the seas parted and there she was walking toward him, looking like the most beautiful woman in the room and with a smile that conveyed just how pleased with herself she was. He supposed that Robert followed that with his toast and that at some point the octet began to play again, but it was all just background noise.

When she finally got to him, she said, smiling cheekily, "Well, hello, there birthday boy. Don't you look good enough to eat."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, trying very hard to come up with a perfect come back. But his will power crumbled and rather than saying anything at all, swept her into a kiss so long and deep, if her Granny Violet had been watching, she might have considered it inappropriate.

When he pulled away, he didn't let her go, and she whispered, "Where am I?"

"Very funny."

Sybil laughed. "That was quite a thank you."

"Who says I was thanking you. In fact, I think a measure of punishment is in order."

"Do you promise?"

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Love me."

"Oh, darling, I'm way ahead of you."

They kissed again, this time lightly, and dropped their embrace but continued to hold hands.

"Speaking of good enough to eat," he said, giving her head-to-toe once over.

She smiled bashfully and shrugged her shoulders.

"Since you don't seem to be aware of how lovely you are, I shall take it upon myself to remind you every day."

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"I'd rather you hadn't announced to the world that it was my birthday," he said cheekily.

"Fair enough."

They smiled at each other for a moment. Then, quietly, Tom asked, "Am I to guess from the fact that he introduced you that your father doesn't think I'm an utter waste of molecules?"

"Well, I won't pretend he likes you so well as he likes Matthew."

Tom smirked. "Nobody likes me so well as they like Matthew."

"Wouldn't Matthew say the same thing about you?"

"No. He'd say that nobody ever finds him better looking than me."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Terribly full of yourself."

"The better to hide deep-seated insecurities." He paused for a moment, adding, quiet again, "I'm serious, though, about what I asked."

"Reiterating that the only person whose opinion counts is mine, yes, they thought you perfectly delightful. I do have to say that the piano playing helped, especially with mum."

"It's not that I was all that worried about it before tonight. I guess the sheer number of people here makes me think of how many might shun you for dumping one of their own for me."

"You can't possibly believe that anyone here would make me doubt myself or us. Certainly, you aren't doubting, are you?"

"I'm aware that you love me, Sybil, and I don't doubt you or us. But what you said that I chastised you for, about making things easier, I guess I'm saying that I get now what you were trying to say. And I hope I haven't made things hard by being, well, me."

Sybil took both of his hands in hers. "You haven't. I don't think I would have managed it with anyone else, in fact."

He smiled and leaned down to kiss her again. When he pulled away she was grinning.

"So, Mr. Branson, I know you play and I know you sing, but it remains a mystery to me whether or not you can dance."

He laughed pulling her toward the dance floor. "I'll risk it, but I think you'll end up wishing it had remained a mystery.

 

**Mary**

It was about 11 p.m. when Mary finally broke. Some prior version of herself might have thought it inelegant or uncouth to leave a New Year's party before midnight, but anyone fully aware of her present circumstances would have excused her. He looked too good. She wanted him too much to be expected to wait. Sex with Matthew was going to be had tonight, and she wasn't going to be the one to delay the inevitable.

It would have been easy enough to pull him into any room and rip his clothes off— _goodness, how good does he look in formal clothes_ —like she'd done that first night. This time, though, she wanted it to be at least somewhat romantic. So when Matthew went off to the loo, she found one of the servers and asked him to bring a bottle of red wine and a couple of glasses and leave them on the table in the entrance hall "and quickly!"). Then, she found Matthew and pulled him along before he had a chance to say a word. Once they got there, though, to Mary's dismay, the server had left the bottle and two highball glasses.

Noting her annoyance, he asked, "What is it?"

"They've left the wrong glasses."

She turned around to go back to the ballroom for _wine_ glasses, but she stopped when she felt his hand on her arm.

Matthew took the bottle and highballs from her, and said, "Mary, I'll happily go back for the correct glasses if that's what you'd really rather be doing right now."

She sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm incorrigible."

He smiled back at her. "So, where to?"

She took the bottle from him and grabbed his hand. As they walked up the central staircase, she said, "Do you know how I said I didn't behave much like a child when I was one?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm afraid the same holds true about being a teenager. So right now, I'd like to do something I've never done."

"Oh? And what's that then?"

"Sneak a boy into my room for sex."

They'd reached the top of the stairs when she'd said the last, and Matthew stopped her.

"Where is your room, exactly?"

"Down the corridor to the left, the second door on the right."

And with that, Matthew handed Mary the highballs, lifted her into his arms and proceeded where she'd directed him practically in a sprint.

Mary threw her head back, laughing, and thought, _This must be what people mean when they say you'll know when it's love._

 

**Sybil**

Sybil wasn't sure how many hours past midnight had passed when she and Tom finally left the ball. Her intention hadn't been to stay so long. It was rather a surprise to her how much more enjoyable the event was when she was with someone she wanted to be with. She and Gwen, who'd paired herself up for the night with a young paralegal from Robert's firm, had danced and drunk with their respective dates with such abandon that both easily and adamantly declared it the best New Year's ever. Tom even conceded that it had been his best birthday ever.

It was this proclamation that reminded her of the surprise she'd planned for him. The couple said their goodnights and headed out, but when Tom turned to go toward the main staircase, Sybil pulled him in the opposite direction.

"I know my sense of direction in this place is not the best, but this is not the way to your room."

She smiled. "We're not going to my room—not yet. I want to show you something."

He let her pull him along to the stairs that led to the old servants hall. If any of the staff who were still down there working the event saw them, none of them reacted. Soon, they were outside, and Sybil who hadn't bothered with a coat, quickly felt Tom slipping his tuxedo jacket over her shoulders.

She turned to him, and he said, "Finally, an excuse to take that thing off."

She grabbed his hand and said, "Thank you for wearing it. You looked wonderful."

"Not as good as you."

She rolled her eyes.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"You'll see."

They'd arrived at the garage and Sybil opened the door and felt around the wall for the light. Tom stepped in behind her. "Jesus!"

She turned back to him. "What?"

He was looking at the two Land Rovers, the Rolls Royce and Ferrari her father kept there. "These are all your father's?"

"I'm afraid so, but they're not why we're here." She pulled him again, and they walked to the back of the garage, where they stepped through another door and were outside again. As soon as they'd stepped outside a sensor light came on, and a small cottage was visible in the distance, about 30 yards away. She walked about halfway there, then turned to see his reaction. _Puzzled. Curious._

She bit her lip with anticipation.

"What is this place?" He asked

"It was built in the 1870s as a dormitory for the stable hands. The roof collapsed in a snowstorm in 1911, and it was rebuilt to house one person."

"And who was that?"

"The chauffer."

He turned to her with a smile, starting to understand where they were.

"This is the chauffer's cottage, Tom. Or it was. It's vacant now. Anyway, this is where he would have lived, and, um, where she would have snuck down to."

He looked in awe. He took a few steps forward, as if to inspect where he was more closely, and she heard him say, "It's just like I pictured it." He turned to her. "I looked for one of these everywhere. I toured like a dozen old country houses, but none of the tours veered from the main house, so I described it mostly from what I found in old books and what I imagined it would look like."

He turned back to the house and stepped closer again, toward the door. "Can we have a look inside?"

She walked past him, and with a wink took the key out from her cleveage and opened the door. She held out her hand to him and said, "Oh, we'll do more than just look around."

**XXX**

The sun's first rays were already visible on the eastern horizon, when Sybil and Tom walked back to the house. She made a joke about having "christened" the small cottage, but Tom, in his response to her, pointed out what was more likely true.

"Not to besmirch the Crawley family's good name, Sybil, but I very much doubt you're the first lady of the house to have snuck into the servants quarters in the middle of the night for a quickie."

Sybil laughed and said, "Now that you mention it, I hope you're right."

A short while later, in her bed, Tom's arms wrapped around her, neither caring who might discover later that morning that he'd slept in her room, Sybil thought about everything that this house—her house—had been through, everything that the four walls now surrounding her had witnessed. And she felt something akin to pride that she and Tom were now part of Downton Abbey's story.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the epilogue and end of this story when I originally wrote it. I added a few drabbles set in this universe, which I added later and are the chapters that follow. They are mostly focused on Tom and Sybil, but the very last one also includes Matthew and Mary.

  **18 months later**

"For fuck's sake, Mary, I don't care that you're the bride. The bloody best man plans the stag night and, like it or not, that's me!"

Sybil Branson was in actual tears laughing at her husband and sister fighting—as they had been doing more and more lately—over Matthew Crawley, Tom's best friend and Mary's husband-to-be. It wasn't that Tom and Mary didn't like one another. Most of the time, in fact, they got along quite well. Unfortunately, though, Mary and Matthew's pending nuptials had stirred up a selfishness in each of them with regard to Matthew's time that was not particularly becoming for either, providing a seemingly endless source of exasperation for Matthew and an equally endless source of amusement for Sybil. What it came down to, Matthew and Sybil agreed, was that Tom and Mary's egos were simply to large to fit in the same figurative room.

Sybil had been watching Tom pace the kitchen, increasingly annoyed at Mary, for the last fifteen minutes. She'd gotten up from bed a short while ago, gone to the loo and then, still in her pajamas, gone in search of Tom to share some news she'd been holding for the last several days, only to walk into the kitchen to this. Having heard his side of the argument, Sybil could only imagine what was being said on the other end of the line. Now that Tom had dropped a "fuck" and "bloody" in a single sentence, Sybil decided it was time to intervene before any real damage was done.

She stood up from the sofa, walked over to her husband and without warning took the phone from his hands.

Tom threw his hands in the air and announced, "I'm taking a bath."

Sybil laughed as she watched him walk upstairs. "Hi, Mary."

"Honestly, Sybil. Explain to me how you can live with such a man."

She responded cheekily, "Exactly how much detail would you like?"

"Ugh, must everything be about sex with you two?"

"Mary, why are you two getting so worked up?"

"With all this wedding madness I was about to say that I can see why you eloped, but I've realized that's the problem."

"What's the problem?"

"Tom didn't get a proper stag, so now he's trying to hijack Matthew's."

"Mary, you're being positively silly! Since when has any bride had any say in what the groom does the weekend before the wedding?"

Mary sighed.

"You need to _relax_ , sister dear," Sybil continued, "Besides, whatever they get up to, it won't be near as fun as what Edith is planning for us."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"It's a surprise, of course. I'm not going to ruin it now just to appease you over what, quite frankly, is a very silly argument with Tom. You need to let them do what they want."

"Oh, all right. I just don't want them to get into any sort of trouble."

"I'm sure they will get into some trouble, but I told you already that I've warned Tom. If Matthew isn't at the altar looking his best on the day of your wedding, he'll get punished."

"Yes, I remember, no sex for one month."

"One week, actually."

"That's all!?"

"Well, I'm not going to punish _myself_! And trust me, when I told him, the message got through. A week is plenty."

Mary laughed, sounding, finally, at least somewhat relaxed. "Fine. You two really are quite a match."

"So are you and Matthew."

"That we are."

"Is all the other planning going well?"

"Other than mum driving me crazy, yes. Speaking of, don't forget that the dressmaker needs your measurements by next week."

"Mary, about that . . ." Sybil trailed off as she heard Tom come back into the kitchen freshly showered, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. "Actually, can I call you back tonight?"

"Sure. Is everything all right?"

"Yes. I promise. I'll call after dinner."

"All right, darling. We'll talk soon."

With that Sybil hung up and turned to Tom, who was leaning against the counter watching her and drinking a cup of coffee. He lifted his mug and asked, "Do you want some?"

"Um, no, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Listening to the two of you was enough to stir all the senses." She walked over to him, took his mug, placed it on the counter and put her arms around his neck. "I do wish you'd take it easy on her. It is _her_ wedding."

He smiled and leaned his forehead against hers. "I know. I'm sorry." They stood like that for a moment, but then Tom pulled his head back rather suddenly and furrowed his brow. "Do you ever wish we hadn't eloped?"

"Tom, how can you ask me that? Of course, not."

"I don't know. Most girls like planning weddings and things. I just don't want you to feel like you missed out on something."

She laughed. "Honestly, watching poor Mary contend with mum and granny over this whole thing makes me grateful we avoided it."

"Me too."

"Besides, ours was still a very nice wedding, and it's not like no family attended."

 

_It happened in late July, after Tom's first New Year's Ball at Downton. Sybil had been living in Dublin for four months (with him for three, as it took them a month to realize her getting her own flat was utterly pointless) and she was working part-time as a nursing assistant at a mental health rehabilitation center. She'd tried to find full-time work at first, but there wasn't much available in her field. So after a talk with her college advisor, she changed course. The research that she'd done in London on soldiers, her advisor told her, was enough to start on her doctoral degree in public health, if that's what she wanted. So instead of a permanent job, Sybil began looking for something to fill the time while she waited to enroll to at Trinity College in Dublin in the fall. Shortly after finding the nursing assistant position, they found an old house to rent in his sister Maura's neighborhood. Needing a break after the move and knowing how busy Sybil would be once classes started, they decided to take a trip to New York City to visit Martha, who was only too happy to host her two favorite people in the world._

_It was a wonderful three weeks, during which they took a train ride to New Haven, so Sybil could show Tom where she'd gone to uni, and spent a few days at Martha's house in the Hamptons. Most of all, though, they enjoyed just being in the city. Because Martha's apartment on the Upper East Side was so close to Central Park, Tom took advantage and went for a jog every morning while Sybil slept in. One morning, two days before they were set to go back to Dublin, Martha found him on his way back in and asked him to follow her into her room. He would have protested, given his sweaty state, but he knew not to argue with her when she had her mind set on something, as she very clearly did just then. He stopped at the doorway and watched her as she went over to her vanity and took out something small and shiny from a small porcelain bowl. She held it out to him. It was a diamond ring._

_"Are you proposing to me, Martha?"_

_"Oh, kid, that's how I know you're perfect for her," she said with a smile._

_"What is this?" He asked walking to her and taking the antique ring._

_"This is the ring you're giving to Sybil, you nitwit. It was the one my dear Leo gave to me when he proposed a zillion years ago. I've had it long enough."_

_Tom realized what she was giving him. "Are you serious?"_

_"Of course, I'm serious. The question is, are you?"_

_"Yes, I am."_

_"Well, now you have the hardware for when the mood strikes."_

_"Thank you. I'd hug you but . . ." he motioned at his sweaty self._

_"Oh, there will be time enough for that."_

_Tom wasted no time, practically running to Sybil, waking her and asking her to marry him right then._

_Her answer, naturally, was a resounding yes, followed by, "Oh, Tom, let's do it today!"_

_Martha was only too happy to oblige. She took them shopping that very morning and bought Sybil a simple tea-length white sheath dress and Tom a navy suit. Later that afternoon, the three of them walked into New York's City Hall. And just like that, Sybil and Tom were married. Martha and the groom of the wedding party waiting behind them in line were their witnesses. Their respective families were happy and not entirely surprised at the impulsiveness of the whole thing when they finally heard. Cora's lightly hurt feelings at not seeing her daughter get married were assuaged when Sybil told her she could host a reception for them at Downton, if she wanted. Sybil left all the planning in the hands of her mother, and it was a lovely event, a garden party, so the groom—whom Cora knew well by this point—wouldn't have to wear a tux._

_Claire's reaction: "Oh, thank heaven! I thought it would never happen!"_

_The following December, back at Downton for the ball, Sybil and Tom's wedded bliss was made brighter by Matthew and Mary's announcement of their own engagement._

_Tom had pushed Matthew in that direction after he and Sybil were married, but it had been Matthew's plan to do it at the ball all along. And the weather offered him a helping hand. On that night, sometime around 11:50 p.m., he pulled Mary out into the entrance hall. She had started to joke about their having abandoned the ball before midnight the previous year and making a tradition out of it, when she noticed snow falling outside. Excited for a snowy New Year's, she immediately walked through the doors and out into the driveway, leaving Matthew behind her. When she turned around to see if he'd had caught up, she saw him several steps behind her, down on one knee._

_Her eyes brightened with tears. "Oh, Matthew!"_

_He held out his hands, and she, beaming, stepped forward to slide hers into his._

_"Lady Mary Crawley, would you do me that honor of becoming my wife?"_

_After the yes, after the kiss, and after a bit of twirling in the snow, the two ran back inside to share their news as everyone was wishing each other a happy new year. They went to Robert and Cora first. Mary saw the tears in her father's eyes as she approached him and knew immediately that Matthew had spoken to him ahead of time. Matthew was not a stickler for tradition and didn't think it necessary to ask "permission," but he knew that giving that moment to Robert would mean a lot to Mary. Watching her as she hugged her father, he knew he had been right. Next, they sought out Tom and Sybil, who were so thrilled they pulled their sister and soon-to-be brother into a group hug. Mary might have thought it silly, if she hadn't been so happy._

_Unlike Tom and Sybil's quiet afternoon in New York, Matthew and Mary's would be a traditional wedding. With all the pomp and circumstance—and headaches—that came with it. Mary would not have it any other way._

 

Sybil still had her arms around Tom in the kitchen when the doorbell interrupted what she was about to say, what she'd been meaning to tell him since she walked downstairs. What she'd been looking for a way to tell him for the last several days, in fact.

Tom went over to the door and a few minutes later brought a small parcel with him into the kitchen.

"What is it?" Sybil asked.

"Galley proof for the book. My editor said it would be coming this week."

"Oh, how exciting!" Sybil immediately took the parcel from him and ripped it open. He smiled at her excitement. She'd read the copy several times already, but she couldn't wait to do it again in actual book form.

It hadn't happened overnight, but Tom eventually overcame his writer's block. Being with Sybil had started the process and going through his father's old papers had brought it all back—why he'd wanted to be a writer in the first place. Writing became meaningful again, no longer just an empty exercise. Several months earlier, with help from Edith's powerful boyfriend Michael Gregson, Tom had found a publishing house that would take his new manuscript, titled "The Autobiography of My Father." He was still at the magazine because he thought it helped keep him focused, but he was, he _felt,_ very much a real writer again. Sybil could not have been happier or more proud.

Once the galley was out of the box, she immediately opened it up to the first page. She was about to start reading aloud, when she got an idea and turned to the last page in the book.

"There's a problem with the about the author text."

"What?" He quickly took the book from her and looked it over. " 'Tom Branson is a graduate of Cambridge University and the author of The Radical Chauffer. He lives in Dublin with his wife.' What's wrong with that?"

"It should read, 'He lives in Dublin with his wife and baby.' "

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

It was Tuesday.

The day after her due date.

She was bored. And tired.

Tired of being pregnant. And tired of waiting.

Sybil had never been a fan of waiting. "Patience is a virtue," her mother would always say. Sybil would always roll her eyes in response.

And this baby was trying her patience in every way. Especially this last month.

First, there was the weight gain. Her small, curvy frame had grown, not just in the middle, but _everywhere_ , including her feet, which rendered almost all of her shoes unusable. Tom, of course, would tell her every day how beautiful he thought she looked, but it was one thing to hear "I have never wanted you more" from her randy husband and another to have to negotiate 40 pounds of extra weight and a bowling ball firmly perched between them during their attempts at love making over the last few months. Before pregnancy, she had loved being on top. Now the only thing she longed for was to feel his weight on her and to burrow her face into his neck as they came together. (Tom had no complaints.)

Then, there was her appetite. There was simply not enough food on this earth to keep her satisfied. Tom had taken to leaving her a bit on his plate, resulting in his losing ten pounds during her pregnancy, which, of course, just reminded her of how much she had gained.

Thirdly, there was her emotional state. She wasn't flying off the handle, going from hot to cold, happy to sad at a moment's notice, yelling at everyone in her path the way "hormones" are portrayed in film. But every so often, she would feel emotion well in her chest and feel the need for release through a long cathartic cry.

Tonight was such a night.

Cora had flown into Dublin that morning to be there for the birth. Robert would be coming in two days. Tom and Sybil's house had plenty of room, but Cora had insisted on staying at a hotel a few blocks away until the baby's arrival.

"Once the baby is here, you won't be alone for the next twenty years," she'd told them. "These last moments will be a treasure when you look back on them."

So after dinner, Tom had gone to drop her off, and Sybil had been left on the sofa in the den to contemplate how very, _very_ uncomfortable she was.

"Please come out soon, baby!" She said aloud, rubbing her belly and feeling the gentle pushing from inside. "Is that you saying, no? Don't argue with your mum!"

She laughed at herself, then resolving that she needed to get a bit of emotion out. She went to their television and put in her favorite movie. It was not five minutes in when Tom returned.

"I've brought some dessert," he called out from the kitchen.

"What?"

"Apple barley pudding," he said walking in with a bowl and a spoon for her.

"I love you," she said taking the pudding eagerly. "I've got a movie on," she added after taking a bite.

Tom sat down and let her adjust her position so he could pull her feet into his lap. Seeing what was on the screen, he groaned audibly. "Sybil, not this again!"

"What?! The Wind That Shakes the Barley happens to be a brave, wonderfully authentic and heart-wrenching drama on the struggle for Irish independence."

"And you've seen it a dozen times in the last month."

"You're exaggerating."

"Not by much."

"Why is it that I'm the English one and I'm always in the mood for this movie and you're not?"

"It's terribly depressing, love. I mean, I do find it moving and righteous and I'm glad it was made to show a truly Irish story about the fight for the free state, but it's not something for every day. At least not for me."

"I just need a good cry."

"And what's wrong with the copy of Terms of Endearment that Maura let us borrow. Not enough Cillian Murphy in that one?"

Sybil lifted one of her legs from Tom's lap to kick him, which only caused him to laugh.

She furrowed her brow. "I think I've been refreshingly honest about my weakness for Irishmen," she said. Tilting her head, she added, "You know you're still my favorite."

Tom smiled and pulled her hand to his mouth to kiss it. "Thank you, my darling."

They sat in silence as the movie played. When it ended, as the credits rolled, they laughed at how red both of their eyes were from crying. Tom pulled her closer and grabbed her face in his hands. After wiping her tears with his thumbs, he pulled her into a long kiss.

"Do you promise to always kiss me like that?" She asked quietly.

"As long as you promise to always kiss me back the same way."

She answered by pulling him in for another. After a few minutes of slow lingering kisses, they stood and made their way to bed. It took Sybil several minutes to settle into place on her side. She'd been feeling cramps on and off all night and was having a hard time getting comfortable. Feeling Tom come up behind her and put his arm on her belly, she snuggled her back into him.

"Is everything all right?" He asked. "You seem more fidgety than usual tonight. Are you feeling anything—contractions wise?"

Sybil sighed. "Well, at the risk of getting our hopes up, I started feeling some back spasms during the movie, but only about every half-hour. Nothing that feels like labor yet."

"Do you want a massage?"

"No, just some sleep, I think."

Tom reached over to the night table and turned off the lamp. They'd been laying in silence for a few minutes, when Sybil spoke up.

"Tom?" She said quietly.

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could ever die or kill for a cause? Like in the movie, I mean."

Tom thought for a long while. "I'm not sure. I think that before my father died, I would have said yes, but it would have been a naïve impulse. Knowing what loss can really be like, I'm not so sure. I'd like to think that I would have had the courage to fight for Irish freedom if I'd lived back then, but I have the benefit of hindsight. If I'm honest with myself, there's really only one thing that would move me to give up my life now."

"What's that?" She asked in a whisper.

"You," he whispered back.

Sybil pushed herself up and turned to face him.

He sat up and took her hands. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to make sure you and our baby are safe."

Sybil was about to lean in to kiss him when she felt a sharp pain across her abdomen. She squeezed his hands in response to the pain.

"Ow!" Tom exclaimed. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No, but even so it's not time yet. One hour of contractions lasting at least one minute every five minutes, remember?"

Tom smiled. "So we're in for a long night?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What do you want to do, then?"

"I don't know. Another movie?"

"We're not watching The Wind That Shakes the Barley again, love."

Sybil laughed. "How about the Secret of Roan Inish?"

Tom grinned. " _My_ favorite? See, that one I'm happy to watch as many times as you like."

"Let's hope once is enough tonight."

Tom leaned over to turn on the lamp. "Wait here, I'll get my laptop."

Tom went downstairs to get his computer bag, then into the den to get the DVD. He ran back upstairs and settled back into bed with the computer on his lap. Sybil snuggled up to him.

As they waited for the computer's DVD player to start up, Tom asked, "So have you thought any more about names?"

"No. Nothing sounds right. Maybe I'm too pregnant to think about it."

Tom chuckled. "How about this—if your water breaks while we're watching the movie, we'll name him Eamon if it's a boy and Fiona if it's a girl."

"Deal."

**XXX**

**Seventeen hours later.**

"Oh, Sybil, he's a wonderful baby," Cora said holding her grandson, as tears pooled in her eyes.

"I can't believe he's here," Sybil said, exhausted from the delivery but not ready to succumb to sleep, lest she miss anything of her son's first few hours in the world.

"Have you two slept at all since last night?" Cora asked.

Sybil looked at Tom, who was sitting in a chair next to her bed holding her hand with both of his. They laughed and shook their heads.

"I'm surprised delirium hasn't set in," Tom said. "I think it's the adrenaline."

Cora smiled. "Well, I understand not wanting to sleep now that he's here, but don't push yourselves too much and do try to sleep sometime this afternoon, both of you. He's not going anywhere!"

"We will, mum, don't worry," Sybil said.

"You haven't told me what his name is."

"Eamon Colin Branson," Sybil said.

"Eamon? That's not one from the list you sent me. How did you settle on it?"

They looked at one another and laughed. "It just came to us," Tom answered.

"It's lovely," Cora said, looking back at the baby. "Hi, Eamon. This is your grandmother Cora. It's nice to meet you."

After a few more minutes of cooing at her first grandchild, Cora handed him back to Tom. "I should call Robert to check and see if he found a flight. And Mary and Edith are still waiting to hear the details."

"What about Grandma Martha?" Sybil asked.

"Her too. Don't worry, darling, everyone will know soon enough. In fact, I'd turn off your phones for the next 48 hours if you want any peace."

Tom laughed. "Thanks for the advice, but anywhere Claire Branson is around, there is no peace."

"She went to the hospital cafe, you said?" Cora asked.

"Yes, calling around the family."

"I'll go join her, then," Cora said as she headed out. "Maybe she'll share some tips on being a grandmother."

Tom laughed. Then, once they were alone again, he looked over at Sybil. Exhaustion and happiness were exuding from her every pore.

He motioned with his head. "Move over, will you?"

Sybil gingerly lifted herself over to make room for him. Tom sat down next to her and lifted his feet up onto the bed. Sybil snuggled into his shoulder. It was more or less the same position they'd been in when they'd felt wetness spill onto their bed with ten minutes left in The Secret of Roan Inish. The difference was that instead of a computer, there was now a baby on Tom's lap.

"Am I still your favorite Irishman?" Tom asked quietly.

Sybil grabbed Eamon's tiny hand.

"A very close second."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder, Lily is one of Tom's older sisters, who was divorced with two daughters when we meet her in chapter 12 of this story.

 

 

"All right, he's asleep," Tom said walking into the bedroom, where his wife was sitting slump-shouldered on the bed. "We have two hours."

"If we're lucky," she said skeptically, holding the sides of her 8-months pregnant belly with both hands.

Tom smiled. This was familiar territory. When she'd been pregnant with Eamon, their rambunctious 2-year-old, Sybil had been happy and excited until about the 30-week mark, at which point her size and the discomfort caused by the baby growing inside her turned her disposition from Mary Poppins to Katie Nanna. With baby number two due in less than a month, her moods had taken a similar turn.

Tom climbed onto the bed and seated himself behind Sybil, with one leg on either side of her, and pulled her into him so he could massage her back.

"Why is Lily getting married when I'm as big as bloody Blarney Castle?" Sybil said with a sigh, closing her eyes at his ministrations.

Tom laughed. "You're not."

"I feel like it."

"I thought we were going to use nap time on this lovely Saturday to choose what you'd wear to the wedding."

"I hate everything I own."

"Well, then go buy something new. It's not for another week."

"I don't want to but another maternity dress that I'm never going to wear again."

Tom's hands stilled, which Sybil noticed and she shifted in front of him so that she could look in his eye.

"Never?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged lightly. "It's my current mood."

Tom smiled softly. "Why don't we see how this one turns out before we make any binding decisions."

Sybil shifted and sank into him again. "I suppose that would be the sensible thing to do."

Tom grabbed Sybil's shoulders again and pushed her forward lightly. "OK, we're going to choose something right now."

"We don't need to make this decision now," Sybil said, standing. "As you said I have a week."

Tom stood up and walked over to Sybil's wardrobe and opened it. "If we don't make it now, I'll have to hear you whine about it for the rest of the week."

"Want to sleep on the sofa tonight, do you?" Sybil said crossing her arms.

Tom looked over at his wife with a smirk, then focused again on the clothes hanging in front of him. He moved around the hangers for a few minutes while Sybil watched with amusement, finally settling on a blue sundress with small white, yellow and green flowers.

"Here," he said, handing it to Sybil.

She grabbed it with an eye-roll and held it out in front of her. "It's practically a tent. I look like a beached whale in it."

"Sybil—"

"Tom, you don't understand. I'm fat and I look horrible!"

"No, you bloody don't!"

"Oh, what do you know—you're as handsome as ever. That blonde girl at the shop was flirting with you yesterday."

"Who?"

"The cashier! She was being so obvious, too. Don't tell me you don't remember!"

"I remember that we went to the shops yesterday, and I assume there was a cashier, but I can't ever remember what she looks like." Tom stepped forward to pull Sybil into him. "How could I when I'm married to the most beautiful girl in the world?"

Sybil rolled her eyes.

"Put it on," Tom said, gesturing to the dress with a smile.

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

Sybil sighed. "Fine."

Without pretense or shame, Sybil pulled off her T-shirt (which revealed she was braless) and pushed down her shorts, which took her underwear with them. Tom snickered at the sight of his naked pregnant wife, but did not take his eyes off what he considered the loveliest being all of existence.

Once the dress was on, Sybil held out her arms and twirled around with a humorless expression on her face. The soft material swirled gently around her knees.

Still smiling, Tom pulled Sybil over to the armchair in the corner of their bedroom and sat her down in it before kneeling on the floor in front of her.

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

"Well," Tom said, sitting back on his heels, "you need something to wear next week, but you say that you hate everything you own. I'm going to make you not hate this dress."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"By creating a positive association," Tom said, pushing his hand beneath the hem of the dress and up Sybil's thigh as he did so.

"Oh!" Sybil said, biting her lip to contain her smile. "Well, then."

Tom leaned forward and pulled her into a kiss. "You just sit back and relax," he whispered as his hand met its prize in between her legs.

Sybil pulled him back for another kiss. "You are a good husband."

"No, I'm a _very_ good husband."

He grinned at her, then bent down, pulling the dress over his head.

Sybil sank into the chair and pulled her left leg over the side of it. After a long moan, she said, "Very good, indeed."


	22. Chapter 22

 

**Tom and Sybil**

"Mam, I'm cold!"

Sybil rolled her eyes at her daughter who had just walked into the room Sybil and Tom were staying in, dressed in her pajamas and holding her teddy bear and favorite fleece blanket. "I told you, darling, it's an old house. We just have to bundle up."

"Well, that's why I brought my blanket!" Saoirse said, as if exasperated that her mother did not note the obvious.

"Da and Eamon will be back from the kitchen soon with our hot cocoa, and that will help too."

"OK," Saoirse said, climbing into the large bed in the room and pulling off a pillow to bring it over to the fireplace, where Sybil had just been stoking the embers.

"Did you enjoy Christmas Eve dinner with your cousins?" Sybil asked as she pulled Saoirse next to her and wrapped the blanket around her.

Saoirse nodded. "I did, except Maisy said Eamon and I talk funny."

"Well, she's little and probably doesn't understand why you have an Irish accent."

"I told her she talks funny too, but she didn't seem to like that very much, so she started crying and her nanny didn't like _that_ very much."

Sybil laughed at the way Saoirse rolled her eyes when she spoke. Maisy, a sweet natured child most of the time, was the baby of the family and treated as such by everyone around her, which meant that every so often she'd subject the unsuspecting to one of her temper tantrums. The rest of the Crawley cousins were well used to it by now.

"I miss granny," Saoirse said after a while, a bit out of nowhere.

"I know, darling, but we'll be home in a few days, and she promised to make us New Year's dinner since we missed her today. Usually, we have Christmas with granny and come to Downton for New Year's and grandpapa's big party, but it's nice to be different once in a while."

Saoirse nodded. "I just like granny's because she lets us sit all together."

Sybil smiled, thinking how funny it was that Saoirse protested about the fact that Christmas at Downton meant not only that she couldn't help make dinner as she did every year with her grandmother Claire Branson, but also that she and Eamon had to sit at a separate table from their parents. Her kids loved her side of the family, of course, and especially enjoyed having cousins in George, Maisy and Marigold who were closer to their age than their Branson counterparts, almost all of whom were a great deal older. Still, Eamon and Saoirse always seemed to see the Crawley rituals with a skeptical eye—and Sybil couldn't really blame them, given that she'd done the same thing as a child growing up. They were like her in so many ways, even though they were also, Sybil had to admit, very thoroughly Irish.

Sybil and Saoirse didn't have to wait long for Tom and Eamon (also already in his pajamas), who walked in gingerly so as not to spill any of the warm, sweet liquid from the mugs they were carrying. Once everyone was settled on the floor near the fire—Saoirse on her father's lap and Eamon nestled in between Tom and Sybil, Tom asked Saoirse, "All right, darling, do you remember the blessing? You're the youngest, so tradition calls for you to lead it."

Saoirse bit her lip and looked over at her mother.

Sybil gave her a smile of encouragement. "You can do it, darling."

"OK," Saoirse said, then took a deep breath.

"May you always walk in sunshine. May you never want for more."

Then the other three Bransons held up their mugs of hot cocoa and joined her, "May Irish angels rest their wings, right outside your door."

**xxx**

"The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble; and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white."

Mary smiled from the doorway as she watched Matthew struggle with turning the page on the worn copy of Oliver Twist he was reading from, with each of his children weighing down an arm of his as they cuddled their father while he read to them. "They're both asleep," she said, finally stepping into the room.

Matthew smiled. "I know. I was reading for me. I love this book."

Mary sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed George's foot. The blond boy—a veritable carbon copy of his father—shifted slightly but remained asleep. "And how are they supposed to follow the story if you keep reading once they go to sleep?" She asked looking at Matthew again.

"I don't think they mind. If it were up to Maisy, I'd have to start at the beginning every night. She finds it disconcerting that we can't finish the book in a single sitting."

Mary laughed. "Well, I'll take her, if you want to take him."

"What do you mean?" Matthew said, pulling both sleeping kids further into his chest.

"They have their own rooms here."

"But they're so comfortable."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Last night, when this happened, you said it would be all right, and we both ended up on the carpet in front of the fireplace."

"Which was its own kind of fun," Matthew said with a wink.

Mary couldn't help but smile. " _Nevertheless_ , I want to get a good night's sleep tonight—for once!"

"Oh, all right."

Mary stood and moved around the bed to gently lift up Maisy without waking her. As the young girl shifted into her mother's arms, she didn't open her eyes, but she did speak. "Oh, mummy, hi. I love you. Are you going to sleep with us?"

Mary looked at her daughter's face. Maisy was also fair like her father, but her features definitely favored Mary—including, as Matthew put it, "eyebrows that will haunt boys' dreams." One of those eyebrows twitched now and Maisy's eyes flickered open. "Mummy?"

Mary sighed. "All right, darling, but not after tonight."

Once the four were settled again in the king-sized bed, with parents on the edges and kids in the middle—Matthew lifted his head to look at Mary.

"Happy Christmas, darling."

Her eyes were already closed, but she said, "It is happy, isn't it?"


End file.
